THE  GIRL  OF 
O  •  K  VALLEY 


ROBERT  WATSON 


THE  GIRL  OF  O.  K.  VALLEY 

A.    Romance   of    the    Okanagan 
ROBERT     WATSON 


THE   GIRL 
OF   O.  K.   VALLEY 

A  Romance  of  the  Okanagan 

BY 

ROBERT  WATSON 

AUTHOR  or  "MY  BRAVE  AND  GALLANT  GENTLEMAN,"  ETC. 


NEW  >€ajTYORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


Copyright,  1919, 
By  George  H.  Doran  Company 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


TO 
A  LADY  CALLED  NAN 


2138693 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  *AGB 

I  THE  IMMIGRANT  .       .       .      .       .       .       .       •      «^    H 

II      DAY-DREAMS 28 

III  THE  LURE  OF  THE  VIOLIN 42 

IV  HIGH  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS 59 

V     AT  THE  TOOT  OF  THE  FLUTE 80 

VI     THE  TRYST 92 

VII      STORM  FIENDS IO/ 

VIII      THE  VICTIM 122 

IX      WITCHERY 14° 

X      ROANSTONE  FAIR I  $6 

XI  OFF  WITH  THE  OLD,  ON  WITH  THE  NEW     .       .  172 

XII     THE  VOW 184 

XIII  THE  CANKER  OF  DOUBT 2O4 

XIV  THE  MADNESS  OF  A  MAN 221 

XV  THE  MARTYRDOM  OF  THE  MUSIC  WITCH      .       .  235 

XVI      CHANGING  LIGHTS 247 

XVII      OLD  ACQUAINTANCES 259 

XVIII      COLD  KAIL  HOT  AGAIN • "    •  273 

XIX  DISSOLVING  SHADOWS      .       .       .    '.  **".'•-%       .  285 


vil 


THE  GIRL  OF  O.  K.  VALLEY 


THE 
GIRL   OF  O.  K.  VALLEY 

CHAPTER  ONE 

The  Immigrant 

WITH  his  shaggy  brows  down  and  his  hands 
at  his  back,  rancher  Jackson  was  pacing  the 
floor  of  his  large  airy  kitchen.  He  was  in  one  of  his 
oft-recurring  tantrums  of  anger-madness  over  small 
matters.  His  gloomy  personality  was  hanging  over 
the  farm-house  like  an  impending  cloudburst,  ready, 
on  the  slightest  provocation,  to  break  into  a  torrent 
of  abuse. 

A  woman,  shabbily  clad,  her  bent  back  alone  vis- 
ible, was  busy  over  the  kitchen  range  stirring  the  con- 
tents of  a  large  pot.  This  woman  was  Colin  Jack- 
son's wife — a  three-quarter  witted  nobody  who  was 
at  the  beck  and  call  of  everybody;  of  little  or  no 
account  to  anybody,  and  likely  to  die  as  she  was  liv- 
ing, in  pitiable  obscurity. 

ii 


12        The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

"Colin,  the  train  should  be  in  soon.  Aren't  you 
thinking  of  sending  Jim  in  with  the  buggy  to  bring 
your  niece  up?"  she  ventured  timidly  without  raising 
her  head  or  slackening  in  her  stirring  of  the  pot. 
"She's  had  a  long  journey  and  is  sure  to  be  tired 
out." 

Jackson  stopped  to  make  sure  that  he  had  heard 
aright,  although  in  reality  he  had  been  waiting,  al- 
most anxiously,  for  some  considerable  time,  for  a 
remark  of  such  a  nature.  The  storm  was  precipi- 
tated. To  Jean  Jackson  it  was  almost  more  welcome 
than  the  tension  and  the  gloom  of  its  gathering. 

"She  can  walk,"  he  snapped.  "It'll  do  her  good 
after  her  long  rest  in  the  train.  If  she  has  managed 
over  the  Atlantic  and  across  the  Continent,  there's  a 
mighty  poor  chance  of  her  missing  her  way  between 
Vernock  and  here.  Worse  luck!  If  she  happened 
to  get  off  her  track  it  would  be  little  loss.  She  repre- 
sents just  another  to  feed,  another  to  clothe  and — 
Lord  protect  me ! — another  woman  to  put  up  with. 
Goodness  only  knows! — haven't  I  worries  enough 
already  without  her? 

"It  beats  me  to  understand,"  he  continued,  warm- 
ing to  his  tirade  as  he  strode  to  the  window  and  back 
again  to  the  kitchen  cabinet,  "why  some  men  get 
married,  raise  a  brood,  then  die — as  if  in  their  so 
doing  they  had  attained  the  height  of  all  possible 
earthly  ambition — dying  too,  generally  not  worth  a 
corn-cob.  Why  don't  they  die  first  and  be  done  with 


The  Immigrant  13 

it?  It  would  save  their  relatives  a  deal  of  trouble 
in  looking  after  their  brats  later  on." 

"I  know  it,  Colin — well  I  know  it,"  agreed  his 
wife  in  a  piping  voice,  "but  the  man  didn't  die  inten- 
tionally. When  your  sister  Mary  was  alive  she 
never  wrote  you  for  any  help.  It  was  but  natural 
that  she  should  leave  word  for  her  orphan  lass  to  be 
sent  out  to  the  only  brother  she  had.  It  won't  hurt 
the  horse  and  buggy  any  to  send  them  in  to  the  sta- 
tion. It  would  be  a  kind  of  welcome  to  her  besides." 

"Hold  your  talk,  woman!"  interrupted  the 
rancher.  "I've  said  'no'  and  that's  an  end  of  it. 
The  oftener  a  horse  runs  the  sooner  it  has  to  be 
shod.  I  don't  believe  in  keeping  horse-flesh  for  the 
pleasure  of  my  ranch  help.  And  a  ranch  help  is 
what  this  lass  will  have  to  be  so  long  as  she  is  under 
my  roof.  She'll  have  to  work  here  just  as  sure  as 
she  will  want  to  eat  here.  The  sooner  too  that  she 
learns  where  she  gets  off  at  the  better  for  her  and 
all  concerned  with  her.  She's  to  be  started  in  right. 
Do  you  understand?  No  ten  days*  wonder  about  it  I 

"But  I  tell  you,  this  one  thing  on  the  top  of  an- 
other is  enough  to  drive  a  man  to  the  asylum.  Here 
have  I  been  waiting  for  three  years  to  lease  Broad- 
acres — a  ranch  that  can  grow  as  much  on  one  acre 
as  mine  can  on  five — and  now,  when  the  chance 
comes,  Menteith  throws  my  offer  aside  and  rents 
Broadacres,  with  the  option  of  buying,  to  that  inter- 
loping, sun-baked,  retired  British  Army  Captain 


14        The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

who  knows  as  much  about  ranching  as  a  dog  does 
about  the  whooping  cough.  And  has  robbed  me  of 
Tom  Semple  besides — the  best  ranch  foreman  in  the 
whole  Okanagan  Valley. 

"There's  a  payment  due  on  the  mortgage  and 
nothing  to  pay  it  with;  interest  overdue,  wages  a 
month  behind,  the  flume  requiring  repairs,  seed  to 
pay  for,  new  implements  to  make  a  first  payment  on 
before  I  can  get  them.  Now  this ! — the  place  is  to 
be  turned  into  a  damned  orphanage. 

"For  two  peas — ay,  for  a  pea  and  a  half — I 
would  pack  her  off  elsewhere.  And,  it's  as  sure  as 
God  made  little  apples,  she'll  be  of  the  strawberries- 
and-cream,  ice-drink,  afternoon-tea  variety,  always 
with  a  headache  or  a  pain.  That's  what  her  father 
was,  I'm  thinking.  And  they  say  she's  him  over 
again. 

"But — mark  my  words — into  the  barn  and  the 
dairy  she  goes,  neck  and  crop,  just  as  soon  as  she 
gets  here." 

Jackson  took  a  long  breath  and  sighed. 

"Oh,  well! — there's  one  grand  consolation,  she'll 
be  something  new  for  Lizbeth  to  put  her  spite  out 
on.  That'll  maybe  give  me  a  rest  from  that  sarcas- 
tic tongue  of  hers." 

He  sighed  again. 

"The  Lord  alone  knows  where  Liz  got  her  tem- 
per froml" 

Dull  as  she  was,  Mrs.  Jackson  had  her  own  opin- 


The  Immigrant  15 

ion  on  that  last  point,  but  she  wisely  held  her  peace. 
She  had  long  ceased  to  argue  with  her  husband  on 
any  matter  whatsoever,  knowing  only  too  well  the 
futility  of  it.  Colin  Jackson's  brow-beating,  his 
senseless  rage  and  his  niggardliness  had  taught  their 
lessons  years  before,  had  reduced  her  to  the  level  of 
a  kitchen  drudge  and,  imperceptibly  to  herself,  had 
sapped  her  individuality  and  were  now  slowly  under- 
mining her  reasoning  powers. 

Jackson's  daughter,  Lizbeth,  however,  was  a 
horse  of  a  different  colour.  She  possessed  too  many 
of  her  father's  own  characteristics  to  be  easily,  if  at 
all,  over-ruled  by  him.  He  got  to  know  it  early  in 
her  life  and  wisely  left  her  to  her  own  devices — at 
least  so  long  as  the  devices  did  not  clash  too  openly 
with  his  own. 

For  a  brief  moment,  the  light  at  the  kitchen  win- 
dow was  shut  off  as  Lizbeth  passed  by.  She  came  in 
at  the  open  doorway,  deposited  a  can  of  milk  on  the 
floor  and  wiped  her  hands  hastily  on  a  towel. 

She  was  handsome  in  a  buxom  way,  with  full 
red  lips  and  deep,  expressive  eyes;  nicely  featured, 
tall  and  well-formed;  in  every  way  good  to  look 
at  as  she  stood  there,  breathing  a  little  heavily 
from  her  exertions,  her  lips  apart,  her  stout, 
shapely  arms  bared  above  her  elbows  and  her  full 
white  throat  exposed. 

Lizbeth  Jackson  gloried  in  her  virility  and  knew 
full  well  how  to  hide  the  darker  sides  of  her 


16       The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

nature  under  the  visible  charms  of  her  blooming, 
almost  flamboyant,  maidenhood. 

"I  guess  she's  here  at  last,  dad,"  she  remarked 
with  a  backward  nod  of  her  head.  "There's  a 
slender  slip  of  a  miss,  with  a  grip,  coming  up  the 
road." 

"Isn't  anyone  going  to  lend  her  a  hand?"  in- 
quired Mrs.  Jackson,  turning  round. 

"No,  siree!"  replied  Lizbeth.  "She's  to  be 
lending  me  a  hand  before  long.  It  would  be  kind 
of  crazy  starting  her  in  the  wrong  way  round.  She 
might  think  she  was  coming  to  a  sanatorium." 

Mrs.  Jackson  made  to  go  out,  purposely  to  give 
the  new  arrival  some  assistance. 

"Stay  where  you  are — can't  you?"  commanded 
the  rancher  gruffly,  barring  her  progress  with  his 
arm. 

The  woman  drew  back  with  a  look  of  resigna- 
tion, and  resumed  her  work. 

The  sound  of  nervous  feet  was  heard  outside, 
then  came  a  sigh  and  a  plaintive  exclamation. 

"Oh,  dearie  me!" 

The   exclamation  bespoke   distress,   also  relief. 

A  slender  girlish  figure,  with  a  pale,  eager  face, 
stood  in  the  doorway,  and  a  quiet  little  voice  with  a 
soft  accent  asked: — 

"Is  this  Mr.  Jackson's, — Mr.  Colin  Jackson's?" 

"Yes!  you're  at  the  right  enough  place.  Come 
in,"  replied  the  rancher. 


The  Immigrant  17 

"Oh,  I'm  so  glad!"  answered  the  girl  wearily. 

She  clasped  her  hands  and  took  a  step  forward. 

"You'll  be  my  sister  Mary's  lass?"  continued  Jack- 
son. "I've  never  seen  you.  You  don't  favour  the 
Jackson  side  in  face  or  body.  What's  your  name? 
Kate,  isn't  it?" 

"They  call  me  Kathie,"  she  answered,  trying 
bravely  to  smile  and  to  thaw  the  iciness  of  her  wel- 
come. 

"Ah,  well!  Kate  or  Kathie,  it's  all  the  same. 
Come  over  to  the  window  and  let's  have  a  good  look 
at  you." 

The  girl  came  forward,  looking  about  her  timidly. 

Jackson  caught  up  her  hands  and  examined  them 
with  the  same  scrutiny  as  he  would  have  given  to 
the  mouth  of  a  horse. 

"Soft  as  butter!  Never  knew  hard  work,  I'm 
thinking !"  he  said,  more  to  himself  than  to  his  far- 
travelled  niece. 

His  stern  eyes  went  to  her  face  and  to  the  long 
plait  of  thick,  jet-black  hair  which  hung  over  her  left 
shoulder. 

"Bonny !"  he  soliloquised  again.  "Too  bonny  for 
your  own  good." 

He  turned  to  his  daughter,  who  had  been  survey- 
ing the  scene  as  one  apart. 

"Lizbeth,  I'm  fearing  you'll  have  to  keep  her 
well  hidden  till  you  get  first  pickings  of  the  men  who 


18        The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

have  their  ranches  well  stocked  and  their  pockets 
well  lined."  He  laughed  coarsely. 

Lizbeth  did  not  answer,  but  continued  to  stare  at 
her  cousin  in  a  rude  way. 

Colin  Jackson  resumed  his  questioning. 

"Hum!  Thought  you  were  just  a  bairn  I  I  see 
now  you  must  be  sixteen  or  seventeen." 

"I  am  eighteen,  uncle,"  she  answered,  looking 
down  timorously  before  the  cold  gaze,  a  blush  man- 
tling her  cheeks. 

"Eighteen,  eh!  Well — I  guess  they  don't  grow 
so  big  or  ripen  so  fast  in  Ballywhallen,  Ireland,  as 
they  do  here  in  the  West.  Lizbeth  is  only  a  year 
older,  but  she  looks  twice  as  big  and  half  a  dozen 
times  as  knowing  as  you. 

"Kathie! — this  is  your  cousin,  Lizbeth,"  he  ex- 
claimed at  last,  ignoring  the  fact  that  so  far  he  had 
monopolised  the  entire  conversation. 

"You'll  get  to  know  Lizbeth  better  as  you  go 
along,"  he  continued  slyly.  "That's  your  aunt  over 
there.  I'll  leave  you  with  them." 

He  strode  away,  confident  that  he  had  performed 
a  duty  to  the  satisfaction  of  everybody — or  rather, 
of  himself,  which,  in  his  opinion  meant  everybody 
else  as  well.  He  made  for  the  dairy  where  Meg 
Shaw,  a  Scotch  farm  lass  and  Lizbeth's  chief  help, 
was  hard  at  work.  He  watched  the  girl  intently  for 
a  while  before  he  spoke. 

"Meg — I  won't  require  you  after  this  month." 


The  Immigrant  19 

The  girl  looked  up  in  surprise. 

"What's  wrang  wi'  ye  noo?  Have  I  no'  been 
doin'  my  work  to  please  ye?  Am  I  no'  worth  all  I 
get?"  she  inquired  with  just  a  little  aggression. 

Only  a  year  before,  with  her  old  widowed  mother, 
Meg  had  come  out  West  at  the  urgent  request  of 
Jackson,  who  had  known  her  in  the  Old  Land  and 
had  jumped  at  the  chance  of  obtaining  her  help  on 
the  cheap,  for  a  time  at  least,  until  she  should  get 
thoroughly  wise  to  conditions.  Meg  had  learned 
many  things  during  that  short  year,  but  with  the  ex- 
pense of  coming  over  and  of  keeping  her  old  mother, 
combined  with  the  low  contract  Jackson  had  made 
with  her,  her  financial  position  was  tremendously 
insecure. 

"It  isn't  that  you  haven't  been  doing  your  work, 
Meg.  I  just  won't  require  you — that's  all." 

"Oh,  fine  I  ken!"  cried  Meg,  throwing  down  the 
tin  measure  she  had  been  using  for  filling  the  milk 
cans.  "It's  that  peely-wally-faced  ninny  I  saw  comin' 
up  the  road.  Another  cheap  one  from  the  Old  Coun- 
try! Maybe  you've  managed  to  get  her  for  her 
board.  Weel — you're  welcome  to  her  till  she  gets 
wise.  I'm  glad  I'm  done  wi'  ye.  I  hadna  the 
courage  to  tak'  the  step  mysel',  or  I  would  have 
done  it  lang  syne." 

"That'll  be  enough  from  you  now.  I  want  none 
of  your  cheek." 

"Oh,  want  or  no'  want,  Colin  Jackson, — you'll 


20       The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

just  hare  to  tak*  what  ye  get."  Meg's  eyes  blazed 
in  anger  and  she  shook  her  fist.  "If  a  woman 
works  her  fingers  to  the  bone,  you  want  the  bones 
to  pick  yersel'. 

"Ay! — and  God  help  that  new  lass  if  she  has  to 
work  under  you  and  that  she-cat  Lizbeth.  But  I'm 
fired,  as  they  say  oot  here,  so  what  the  de'il  should 
I  care  ? 

"Give  me  my  wages  to  date  and  I'll  gang  noo. 
That'll  save  you  the  three  weeks  o'  this  month  that's 
worryin'  you." 

Meg  shot  through  the  weak  spot  in  Colin  Jack- 
ion's  armour.  The  temptation  was  too  strong  for 
him.  He  grinned  to  himself  as  he  thought  how  easily 
and  profitably  this  would  work  out  for  him,  for  he 
had  feared  Meg  might  hold  him  to  the  two  years' 
bargain — fraud  of  a  bargain  that  it  was — that  he 
had  made  with  her  on  her  coming.  Hastening  to 
take  her  at  her  word,  he  pulled  out  his  purse  and 
counted  out  several  dollars  and  small  silver  coins 
into  her  palm.  Meg  examined  the  silver  closely. 

"Bide  a  wee  I"  she  exclaimed,  pouncing  on  a  fifty- 
cent  piece.  "I've  seen  this  chappie  before.  It's 
the  same  Strait  Settlements'  one  that  ye  tried  on  me 
last  month.  I  wonder  at  a  man  like  you  no'  passin' 
it  off  on  some  poor  Chinaman  lang  before  this." 

Jackson  exchanged  the  coin  without  a  word. 

"Thank  ye  for  my  ain,"  said  Meg  pertly.  "I 
kent  the  plan  would  suit  ye — ye  cheap-skate. 


The  Immigrant  21 

Lordie! — but  you're  weel  named  Colin  Split-the- 
pea." 

The  rancher  clenched  his  hands  and  turned  upon 
her  with  rising  anger.  Meg  edged  away.  When 
she  got  to  the  door,  she  turned  for  a  parting  word 
or  two. 

"Here's  a  bit  o*  advice.  Oh! — it's  free,  so  maybe 
ye'll  tak'  it.  Keep  you're  weather-eye  on  Lizbeth. 
She's  no'  quite  so  fine  and  nice  as  you  think  she  is. 
She'll  lead  ye  a  de'il's  dance  yet.  You'll  have  to 
split  two  or  three  mair  peas,  and  skin  them  too,  be- 
fore you're  through  wi  her." 

When  Meg  disappeared,  Jackson,  still  in  an  ugly 
mood,  returned  slowly  to  the  house. 

His  niece  had  eaten  heartily  of  the  meal  which  had 
been  placed  before  her  and  was  just  rising  from  the 
table. 

"Meg's  away,"  said  the  rancher  curtly,  address- 
ing no  one  in  particular. 

He  turned  to  Kathie. 

"I  hope  you  are  strong  and  able  for  hard  work. 
There's  lots  of  it  here.  This  is  a  worker's  coun- 
try.1' 

She  looked  over  at  him. 

"Yes!  unclev  I'm  strong.  At  least — kind  of 
strong!  I  shall  soon  get  stronger  and — I  do  want 
to  work  hard  and  be  nothing  of  a  burden  to  any- 
body. I'll  do  anything  and  everything  I  can  to  help." 

"That's  talking,"  said  Jackson  in  a  more  con- 


22        The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

dilatory  tone.  "You  can  make  a  start  with  LizbetK 
in  the  morning.  And  mind — it  will  have  to  be  in' 
coarser  clothes  than  these  you  have  on.  Liz  will 
rig  you  out. 

"We  bed  early  here  and  we  rise  early.  It's  a 
plan  that  saves  artificial  light.  Now,  you  had  bet- 
ter go  upstairs  with  Liz  and  make  the  most  of  your 
time.  You  and  she  are  to  sleep  together  I  hear." 

Kathie  turned  obediently  and  Lizbeth  led  the  way. 

"That  reminds  mel"  he  continued  off-handedly. 
"It  will  be  better  for  everybody  concerned  and  it  will 
save  a  lot  of  questions  and  trouble  if  you  call  your- 
self Kathie  Jackson  from  now  on.  Forget  the 
other.  It  never  brought  you  and  yours  much  luck 
anyway." 

Kathie  gasped  and  her  face  grew  more  than  ever 
pathetic-looking.  She  loved  her  own  surname — her 
father's  name.  It  held  many  pleasant  recollections, 
many  sad  ones;  but  all  none  the  less  dear  to  her. 
But,  somehow,  she  felt  afraid  of  her  big,  bullying 
uncle  and  she  was  so  anxious  to  be  obedient  to  all  his 
wishes  right  from  the  beginning.  She  answered  him 
in  almost  a  whisper. 

"Ye-yes,  uncle  1    I'll  remember." 

"This  is  our  room,"  said  Lizbeth  a  moment  later. 
"We  are  to  sleep  together  as  father  said,  although, 
to  tell  you  the  truth,  I'd  much  rather  sleep  alone. 
I'm  more  used  to  it." 

The  room  was  neatly,  though  plainly,  furnished. 


The  Immigrant  23 

Kathie  went  over  to  the  window  and  sat  down.  It 
was  a  large  window  and  opened  to  the  south,  over- 
looking acres  upon  acres  of  fruit  trees  in  faultless 
rows,  among  which  snugly  sat  the  homes  of  the  many 
neighbouring  ranchers.  Beyond  the  cultivation, 
Kathie  could  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  blue  waters  of  a 
lake,  while,  all  around,  the  Valley  seemed  fringed 
with  undulating  ranges,  walled  in  by  purple  tinged 
and  fir  clad  mountains. 

To  the  left,  not  very  far  off,  a  wood  of  small  firs, 
with  grassy  lanes  running  through  it — planted  evi- 
dently at  some  time  through  the  eccentric  fancy  of 
some  wealthy  rancher — divided  her  uncle's  farm 
from  the  others  beyond. 

"I  have  packed  my  own  clothes  in  the  two  top 
drawers  of  that  bureau.  You  can  have  the  bottom 
two,"  remarked  Lizbeth  in  an  easy  off-hand  way. 
"There's  the  peg  you  can  hang  your  hat  on.  You'll 
require  a  bigger  one  than  that  if  you  don't  want 
sunstroke." 

Kathie  rose  and  made  use  of  the  vacant  peg. 

She  was  tired  almost  to  stupefaction. 

"Your  trunk  is  in  the  corner  there.  It  arrived  at 
the  station  yesterday  and  was  hauled  here  two  hours 
before  you  came.  Your  grip  looks  heavy.  I  wouldn't 
care  to  carry  it  as  far  as  you  did." 

"Oh!"  replied  Kathie  wearily,  "there  was  noth- 
ing else  for  me  to  do  but  try  with  it,  as  nobody 
seemed  to  be  coming  the  road  I  was  coming.  I  was 


24        The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

tired  long  before  I  was  half-way  here.  I  certainly 
never  could  have  managed  it  all  the  way  by  myself. 
A  gentleman  overtook  me  and  carried  the  hand- 
bag most  of  the  way." 

"A  gentleman  1"  exclaimed  Lizbeth,  full  of  inter- 
est. "Who  could  he  be,  I  wonder?  Are  you  quite 
sure  he  was  a  gentleman?  Guess  I  know  most  of 
them  round  here." 

"Yes,  quite  sure!  The  kindly  aid  of  him  when  I 
was  standing  in  trouble,  his  quiet  manner  of  speech 
and  his  well-bred  way  of  not  asking  questions  and 
refraining  from  unnecessary  conversation,  proved 
that  he  was  a  gentleman." 

"I  wonder — I  wonder  who  he  was,"  went  on  Liz- 
beth./ "It  might  have  been  Bob  Crawford,  the 
Provincial  Police  Chief.  No! — I  don't  think  it 
would  be,  either.  Guess  Bob  couldn't  keep  his 
tongue  quiet.  He  would  have  gabbed  to  you  all  the 
way  along." 

"He  was  tall,  with  fair  hair  and  big,  honest  eyes," 
said  Kathie  reflectively.  "He  wore  a  flower  in  his 
buttonhole  and  he  had  a  book  under  his  arm.  He 
was  quite  young — twenty-three,  or  twenty-four,  may- 
be twenty-five." 

Lizbeth  laughed. 

"Oh,  I  know  I"  she  cried,  "Mr.  Simpson,  the  Prin- 
cipal of  the  Vernock  High  School.  He's  some 
favourite  in  town,  especially  with  the  old  women. 
Believe  me  I  Personally,  I  don't  know  very  much 


The  Immigrant  25 

about  him.  He's  too  sober,  too  silent,  too  precise 
for  me, — thank  you! 

"Still,  Miss  Kathie,  you  had  better  watch  out 
whom  you  talk  to  here.  You're  a  Jackson  now  and 
you  better  hadn't  forget  it.  Jackson's  don't  pick  up 
stray  acquaintances.  Better  not  let  dad  hear  of 
it?' 

"Cousin,  please  don't  think  me  of  that  kind," 
pleaded  Kathie.  "I  never  would  think  such  things 
of  you,  even  if  I  did  not  know  you; — besides,  I  am 
so  terribly  tired  to-night." 

"Oh ! — I'm  not  saying  and  I'm  not  thinking  any- 
thing," answered  Lizbeth,  "only  putting  you  wise 
to  some  things.  It  looks  bad  meeting  and  talking 
to  men  before  you  are  right  in  the  Country.  It  re- 
flects back  on  the  ranch,  on  dad  and  on  me,  that's 
all." 

Kathie  refused  to  continue  the  argument.  She 
took  a  few  articles  from  her  grip,  undressed,  tum- 
bled into  bed  and  soon  was  fast  asleep. 

An  hour  later,  she  awoke,  startled  by  a  noise.  She 
looked  up.  The  light  was  still  burning.  Lizbeth 
was  seated  before  the  mirror,  brushing  and  plait- 
ing her  dark,  brown  hair  and  coquetting  the  while 
with  her  own  reflection.  Kathie  lay  quietly  watch- 
ing her  cousin,  who  in  turn  smiled,  looked  disdain- 
ful or  laughed  outright  to  herself  as  fancy  led  her. 

Kathie  could  not  help  admiring  Lizbeth's  round, 
supple  arms  as  they  reached  to  the  longest  strands 


26       The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

of  her  curling  hair;  the  full  white  bosom,  the  grace- 
ful ripple  of  her  moving  shoulders  and  the  easy 
poise  of  her  shapely  head.  She  envied  that  healthy, 
rosy  face  with  the  large,  languid,  hazel  eyes.  She 
felt  her  own  thin  limbs  and  wondered  if  work  on  the 
ranch  would  ever  make  her  so  strong  and  so  beau- 
tiful; and  she  vowed  she  would  strive  hard  to  at- 
tain her  desire — never  to  be  found  wanting  at  her 
work. 

It  was  not  Lizbeth's  wont  to  linger  quite  so  long 
over  her  toilet  as  she  did  that  night,  but  she  was 
brooding  over  this  newly-acquired  cousin  who  was 
sharing  her  room  and  now  lay,  as  she  thought,  asleep 
in  her  bed.  She  did  not  like  this  new  cousin  nor  her 
intrusion,  and  she  had  no  intention  of  making  be- 
lieve that  she  did. 

This  Kathie,  this  poverty-stricken  interloper  from 
over  the  seas,  with  her  quiet,  refined  manner  I  She 
was  far  too  pretty  for  one  thing — too  apt  to  share 
in  some  of  the  attentions  that  had  been  lavished  on 
her  alone.  Lizbeth  had  no  love  for  this  sharing 
business — it  was  too  one-sided  for  her  taste.  Again, 
her  cousin  talked  too  nicely;  too  like  the  well-bred 
and  better  class  of  English  ranchers  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood. She  never  seemed  to  have  to  resort  to  a 
localism  to  express  her  meaning — an  accomplish- 
ment which  Lizbeth  had  tried  so  hard  to  acquire  but 
with  moderate  success  and  an  attainment  which  she 
fancied  so  necessary  to  the  setting  of  a  real  lady. 


The  Immigrant  27 

But  as  she  sat  there,  Lizbeth  found  deep  consola- 
tion in  the  knowledge  that  Kathie  would  have  to  take 
all  her  orders  from  her  at  all  times  and  would  re- 
quire to  execute  them  in  the  way  she  wished  them 
done.  It  would  be  a  pleasure  for  her  to  watch  the 
growth  of  a  tired  and  care-worn  expression  in  that 
face  which  now  looked  so  refined,  and  to  note  the 
gradual  appearance  of  toughness  on  her  white  deli- 
cate hands.  Kathie  would  have  few  idle  moments. 
She  would  see  to  that,  for  the  more  Kathie  got  to 
do,  the  less  it  would  leave  for  Lizbeth.  And,  in  Liz- 
beth's  mind,  that  was  as  it  should  be.  Why  should 
she,  the  only  daughter  of  Colin  Jackson,  have  to  soil 
her  hands  when  there  were  servants  for  the  work? 

She  did  not  mind  seeing  that  the  work  was  done. 
Oh,  no !  That  was  something  of  a  pleasure.  And 
she  knew  how  to  drive.  She  had  been  at  it  and 
watching  it  done  long  enough  to  know.  She  had 
driven  girls,  and  men,  too,  away  from  the  ranch. 
But  now  she  had  one  at  last  who  would  not  be  driven 
away,  for  she  was  alone  in  a  strange  country  and  had 
nowhere  to  go. 

Lizbeth  smiled  again  and  forgot  her  troubles. 
She  passed  her  hands  lovingly  over  her  shapely  arms. 
She  raised  her  firm  shoulder  and  laid  her  cheek 
against  it.  She  admired  her  lips,  her  eyes  and  her 
glossy  curls  in  the  mirrored  reflection,  blew  a  kiss  to 
herself  and  smiled  again,  happy  and  confident  in  the 
security  of  her  apparent  and  abundant  beauty. 


CHAPTER  TWO 
Day-Dreams 

IT  seemed  to  Kathie  as  if  she  had  hardly  fallen 
asleep,  when  the  loud,  imperative  tingling  of  an 
alarm  clock  aroused  her.  She  looked  up.  Lizbeth 
already  was  on  the  floor.  She,  at  any  rate,  was  no 
lazy  lie-a-bed. 

tfTime  to  get  up !"  she  shouted.  "Work  for  you 
starts  to-day.  It's  Sunday,  but  ranching  folks  have 
always  something  that  must  be  done  Sundays.  I'm 
going  to  church  at  Vernock  at  eleven,  so  we  shall 
have  to  get  good  and  busy." 

Kathie  needed  no  second  bidding.  She  had  had 
a  refreshing  sleep  and  felt  that  at  last  she  was  about 
to  be  of  some  practical  use  in  a  practical  world. 

Lizbeth  threw  her  an  old,  kilted  petticoat,  a 
sweater  and  a  pair  of  heavy  boots. 

"Get  into  these,"  she  said.  "They're  what  you 
need  for  the  work  we  have  to  do." 

Kathie  dressed  hurriedly,  laughing  gaily  at  her 
appearance  as  she  glanced  in  the  mirror.  But  sud- 
denly her  expression  changed,  her  eyes  opened  in 
astonishment  and  she  looked  around. 

"Why,  Lizbeth!"  she  cried  tremulously,  "some- 

28 


Day-Dreams  29 

one  has  been  through  my  trunk.  See  1 — my  things 
are  lying  scattered  around  everywhere.  And — and 

— and "  She  stopped  short  as  she  gazed  at  her 

cousin  and  the  truth  of  the  whole  matter  dawned  on 
her. 

Lizbeth  laughed.  "That's  nothing,"  she  replied. 
"I  knew  your  trunk  wasn't  full  of  diamonds,  and  you 
were  too  tired  last  night  to  show  me  what  you  had, 
so  I  just  turned  the  key  and  raised  the  lid  and  had 
a  good  look  all  by  myself.  Besides,"  she  added, 
"girls  always  inspect  one  another's  clothes  and 
trinkets.  If  you  and  I  are  to  live  together,  we  might 
as  well  be  quite  free  with  each  other." 

Kathie  was  too  taken  aback  to  say  very  much. 
That  a  stranger  should  take  liberties  with  her  be- 
longings,— liberties  that  her  own  mother  would  not 
have  dreamed  of  taking — the  indignity  of  it  over- 
whelmed her. 

She  looked  at  her  dainty,  ivory  comb  and  brush 
lying  on  the  bureau.  These  were  new;  a  gift  from 
an  old  Irish  lady-friend  on  her  leaving  Ballywhallen ; 
and  she  had  thought  so  much  of  them  that  she  had 
never  used  them,  being  content  with  an  older  and  a 
plainer  set  that  she  had. 

"But  you've  been  using  these,"  she  exclaimed. 
And  tears  came  to  her  eyes. 

"That's  right!  Be  a  grouch  and  play  the  kid," 
replied  Lizbeth.  Then  with  some  heat: — "Do  you 


30        The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

think  I  injured  them  even  if  I  did  use  them.  Pm 
clean  skinned  and  clean  blooded.  See!" 

She  bared  her  arms  and  her  bosom  to  Kathie's 
gaze. 

"Oh, — it  isn't  that!  You  know  it  isn't  that,  I 
mean.  But  there  are  some  things — like  hair-brushes 
and  combs  and  toothbrushes  that  we  don't  like  others 
to  use." 

"Well,  you  needn't  get  scared  about  your  tooth- 
brush, or  anything  else,  after  this,  now  I  know  how 
touchy  you  are,"  remarked  Lizbeth,  in  a  tone  of 
slight  conciliation.  "But  it's  time  we  were  making 
a  start.  It's  getting  late." 

Kathie  followed  her  down  the  wooden  stairway 
and  out  into  the  gloriously  refreshing  morning  air 
whose  spring  crispness  had  not  yet  evaporated  in 
the  drying  sunshine. 

They  went  across  the  yard  and  into  the  barn,  down 
between  the  long  row  of  stalls  where  the  cows  were 
lowing  and  swishing  their  tajls,  impatient  to  be 
milked. 

With  a  little  three-legged  stool  and  a  pail,  Liz- 
beth taught  Kathie  how  it  was  done,  and  soon  the 
latter  was  bending  forward,  the  pail  between  her 
knees,  her  cheek  against  the  animal's  soft,  comfort- 
able flank,  and  with  deft  fingers  was  filling  her  pail 
with  warm,  creamy  milk.  It  was  a  new  and  strange 
experience  and  so  delightful  to  one  who  had  never 
seen  the  inside  of  a  cow-barn  before.  She  enjoyed 


Day-Dreams  31 

the  labour  and  worked  hard,  trying  her  best  to  keep 
up  with  her  energetic  cousin,  who  had  already  fin- 
ished her  own  row  and  had  started  at  the  other  end 
of  Kathie's. 

When  the  last  cow  was  relieved,  Kathie  rose  and 
stretched  herself.  It  surprised  her  to  discover  how 
stiff  and  strained  her  back  had  become  and  how 
cramped,  and  sore,  and  almost  useless  her  fingers 
had  grown. 

"That's  one  good  job  done,"  remarked  Lizbeth. 
"I'll  mount  Jess  and  take  the  cows  to  the  range. 
That's  their  pasture  over  there ;  up  the  hill  and  be- 
yond the  old  barn,  right  on  to  the  fence  at  the 
woods. 

"Take  this  milk  into  the  dairy  and  fill  up  the 
empty  cans  there  ready  for  Jim  to  take  to  Vernock. 
Dad  will  see  him  loaded  up  himself.  That's  dad's 
own  job.  He  likes  to  keep  an  eye  on  what  milk  goes 
out,  then  he  can  tell  what  money  to  expect  coming 
in. 

"Yes! — and  here's  the  broom.  You  can  get  all 
the  water  you  want  from  the  pump.  Clean  up  the 
barn,  swill  the  stalls  out  to  the  middle  there,  then 
flush  everything  down  the  gutters." 

In  business-like  fashion,  Lizbeth  loosed  the  cows 
from  their  chain  halters  and  with  an  encouraging 
word  here  and  a  smart  rap  there  she  soon  had  the 
barn  clear  of  them.  She  loosed  her  horse,  Jess,  from 


32        The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

a  neighbouring  stall,  jumped  astride,  bareback,  and 
was  off  with  a  shout. 

Kathie  was  left  to  her  own  devices. 

The  work  was  all  such  a  new  experience  to  her 
and  besides  she  had  not  yet  got  quite  over  the  weari- 
ness of  her  six  thousand  miles  journey.  But,  al- 
though her  poor  thin  arms  were  tired  and  paining, 
she  set-to  and  kept  at  it  with  a  will.  She  did  not 
know  just  how  nicely  it  had  to  be  done,  and,  in  fear 
that  her  work  might  be  adversely  criticised,  she  went 
at  it  carefully  and  laboriously  and  long  before  she 
had  finished,  Lizbeth  was  back  again. 

"I'm  going  in  now  to  get  ready  for  the  church, 
Kathie,"  she  said.  "Wing  does  the  cooking  here,  so, 
when  you're  through  you  can  tidy  up  the  bedroom 
a  bit;  then,  if  we  get  the  milking  done  early  enough 
this  afternoon,  you  can  go  to  the  church  for  the 
evening  service : — that  is,  if  you  care  to.  On  Sun- 
days we  don't  do  any  more  work  than  we  actually 
have  to. 

"Kathie!"  she  continued. 

"Yes!" 

"I  wish  to  ask  you  something."  She  stood  back 
from  her  cousin  and  posed  in  pride  and  confidence. 
"Look  at  my  face;  look  at  my  arms  and  at  my  fig- 
ure. Kathie, — do  you  think  I  am  pretty: — really 
and  truly  pretty?" 

The  wind  was  blowing  Lizbeth's  hair.  Her  eyes 
were  langourous;  her  cheeks  were  aglow  with  the 


Day-Dreams  33 

glories  of  the  morning;  her  white  teeth  shone  from 
between  her  full,  parted  lips.  She  had  the  form 
of  a  goddess. 

Kathie  replied  unhesitatingly  and  in  admiration. 
"Yes,  Lizbeth,  you  are  pretty;  you  are  beautiful. 
How  happy  and  how  thankful  you  ought  to  be !" 

"I'm  glad  you  think  so,  Kathie,"  replied  the  co- 
quette with  a  condescending  smile.  "I  love  to  be 
pretty, — to  be  beautiful.  It  means  everything  to  me 
— to  any  woman — even  away  out  here  in  this  hum- 
drum, out-of-the-way  corner  of  the  Universe." 

Kathie  sighed  slightly. 

"You  know,"  went  on  Lizbeth,  "you  are  pretty, 
too — in  a  way — a  sickly  sort  of  prettiness: — the 
prettiness  of  a  hot-house  plant  or  a  hospital  ward: 
— not  the  prettiness  the  men  hereabout  will  go  silly 
over.  They're  simply  crazy  on  figure  and  size.  No ! 
— I  can't  say  that  I  am  jealous  of  you,  Kathie.  I 
think  I  love  my  own  loveliness  best." 

With  a  heartless  laugh  she  turned  and  went  off. 

Kathie  followed  later  and  partook  of  her  de- 
layed breakfast,  served  up  by  the  grumbling  and 
muttering  shuffler,  Wing,  whose  slink  and  creep  and 
general  greasiness  she  felt  most  repulsive. 

Lizbeth  was  upstairs  dressing,  and,  half  an  hour 
before  time  for  worship,  she  came  down,  robed  in  a 
clinging  white  silk  gown  of  the  very  latest  design  and 
crowned  with  a  large,  white  hat  profuse  with  ostrich 
feathers.  A  parasol  and  her  Bible  were  tucked  under 


34        The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

her  arm.  She  sailed  out,  buttoning  up  her  gloves 
with  as  much  of  the  airs  and  graces  of  a  lady  as  she 
knew  how;  perfectly  conscious  of  the  pleasing  pic- 
ture her  fresh,  robust  loveliness  presented. 

Jim,  a  young  ranch-hand,  was  waiting  at  the  door 
with  the  buggy,  to  drive  her  in  to  Vernock. 

After  she  had  gone,  Kathie  fixed  up  her  bedroom. 
And  when  she  finished  she  felt  tired  and  unstrung. 

The  next  hour  or  two  were  her  own,  so  she  lay 
down  to  rest.  She  tried  hard  to  sleep,  but  could  not. 
She  had  reached  that  stage  of  physical  exhaustion 
where  sleep  is  an  impossibility.  Her  brain  was  busy 
and  her  body  was  weary.  From  side  to  side  she 
tossed  in  a  feverish  nervousness.  Although  her  win- 
dow was  wide  open,  she  felt  oppressed.  The  air 
seemed  to  be  closing  in  and  tightening  around  her. 
She  was  seized  with  a  longing  to  scream  out;  but 
she  fought  against  the  impulse. 

And  it  was  then  that  she  bethought  herself  of  the 
old  mellow-toned  violin  upon  which  her  father  had 
taught  her  to  pour  out  her  pent-up  feelings.  How 
quickly  her  troubles  would  vanish,  if  she  were  only 
able  to  poise  it  against  her  throat  and  run  her  fin- 
gers over  the  sensitive  strings  once  more  I  She  re- 
called the  miserly  love  and  fond  care  which  her 
father  used  to  bestow  upon  it.  How  eagerly  he 
would  lift  it  from  its  black  case!  How  transport- 
ing was  his  music!  How  reluctantly  and  tenderly  he 
would  put  the  violin  away  again ! 


Day-Dreams  35 

She  felt  the  thrill  of  the  moments  long  gone  by, 
when  he  placed  the  instrument  and  the  bow  in  her 
hands  for  the  first  time ;  when  he  taught  her  some  of 
the  wonderful  touches  by  which,  as  if  by  magic,  he 
charmed  the  music  from  its  empty  shape.  She  saw 
again  her  father's  pale,  gaunt  face ;  the  eyes  of  fire ; 
the  thin,  tapering  fingers  which  never  tired. 

But,  alas!  like  all  else  that  was  dear  to  her,  he 
was  gone ;  so  was  the  worn  violin.  Only  her  thoughts 
remained ;  bitter  in  their  very  sweetness. 

It  had  been  a  valuable  old  violin — the  costliest 
and  most  treasured  of  all  her  father's  possessions. 
But  it  had  been  taken  away  and  sold,  with  so  many 
other  things  that  were  dear  to  her  in  the  old  home 
in  Ballywhallen. 

She  felt  the  uncontrollable  taking  hold  of  her 
again,  for  all  of  her  thoughts  seemed  to  lead  back 
to  sorrow  and  tears.  Still — she  might  read.  Yes! 
— there  was  no  violin,  but  surely  there  were  books 
— something — anything  to  make  her  forget. 

She  rose  and  passed  slowly  down  the  wooden  stair- 
way in  her  quest.  Half-way,  she  encountered  her 
uncle  going  up.  She  put  out  her  hand  and  touched 
his  arm. 

"Uncle,"  she  inquired,  "is  there  anything  down- 
stairs that  I  may  read,  just  for  a  little  while  till  Liz- 
beth  comes  back?  I  am  so  tired  and — I  cannot  sleep 
or  rest." 

Her  uncle  grunted. 


36        The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

"We  don't  go  much  on  reading  here,  lass — we're 
generally  too  busy  for  that.  But,  if  you  look,  I 
think  you  will  find  a  Bible  and  a  ready-reckoner  on 
top  of  the  kitchen  cabinet.  Take  your  pick, — they're 
both  very  good  books  in  their  way. 

"But  it's  funny  to  hear  of  anybody  tired  and  not 
able  to  rest.  It's  an  uncommon  complaint  on  a 
ranch." 

Kathie  sighed  and  passed  down  to  the  kitchen, 
where  the  smell  of  boiling  broth  predominated. 

She  went  through  the  open  doorway  and  into  the 
bright  sunshine.  There  was  a  tranquillity  in  all 
around.  A  warm  breeze  was  blowing.  It  played 
with  her  hair  and  quieted  her  throbbing  temples, 
soothing  her  like  a  mother's  touch.  She  walked  on 
past  the  barns,  through  the  orchard,  up  the  green 
incline  and  on  to  the  crest  of  the  hill,  among  the 
flaring  yellow  sun-flowers. 

It  was  calm  and  peaceful  up  there. 

She  lay  down  on  the  grassy  slope.  Away  in  the 
distance  was  the  lake ;  behind  her  the  densely  planted 
wood  of  firs.  She  stretched  her  limbs  and  looked 
up  to  the  great  expanse  of  blue  and  to  the  white, 
rolling  clouds.  She  grew  dreamy  and  languid;  then, 
gently,  gently,  she  floated  into  that  blissful  uncon- 
ciousness  she  had  courted  so  much  in  vain  up  in  her 
bedroom. 

Kathie  dreamed  of  her  babyhood;  of  her  mother; 
of  the  little  village  of  Ballywhallen  by  the  sea;  of 


Day-Dreams  37 

the  rugged  headland  which  stood  bold  and  defiant 
against  the  buffeting  of  the  Ocean.  She  saw  herself 
snuggling  safely  in  the  shelter  of  the  old,  shelving 
rock,  with  the  salt-flavoured  wind  whistling  over- 
head, the  waves  booming  down  on  the  shingly  shore 
and  the  seagulls  shrieking  and  complaining. 

Then  she  fancied  someone  came  and  looked  down 
on  her  as  she  lay:  someone  broad,  and  strong,  and 
handsome;  clear-eyed  and  sympathetic;  someone  she 
had  seen  before,  although  where,  she  could  not  re- 
call ;  someone  whom  she  trusted  and  with  whom  she 
felt  secure. 

At  last,  like  a  faint  echo,  a  voice  floated  up  from 
the  far  away.  It  came  nearer  and  grew  louder. 
Suddenly,  Kathie  felt  herself  jolted  and  shaken  up. 
She  opened  her  eyes  and  blinked  in  the  strong  light. 

Her  disturber  was  Lizbeth,  holding  her  horse  by 
the  bridle; — an^ry  and  rude — the  reality,  so  differ- 
ent from  her  dreams;  Lizbeth  in  her  working  garb 
again,  calling  her  from  refreshment  to  work,  de- 
claiming her  laziness ; — sarcastic — impertinent — fu- 
rious. 

Kathie  sprang  up  with  a  momentary  flash  of  de- 
fiance in  her  eyes,  but  quickly  it  faded  away.  What 
was  the  use,  she  thought?  This  was  the  first  day 
of  her  new  life;  her  cousin  was  the  mistress;  she 
was  but  the  servant.  It  would  never  do  to  start  in 
quarrelsome  and  rebellious. 

She  answered  meekly  and  disjointedly. 


38        The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

"I'm  sorry,  LIzbeth.  It  must  be  late.  I've  been 
asleep.  I  did  not  mean  to — but — I  feel  better  now 
— and  ready.  I  hope " 

"Oh!  cut  out  the  hoping,"  interrupted  Lizbeth. 
"It  is  past  milking  time.  You've  been  asleep  for 
hours,  while  we've  been  searching  all  over  the  ranch 
for  you.  Get  back  down  to  the  barn  quickly!" 

Lizbeth  mounted  and  trotted  off  to  gather  in  the 
cows,  while  Kathie  turned  humbly  toward  the  house. 

And  thus  was  the  work  of  the  morning  repeated 
in  the  afternoon,  as  the  work  of  one  day  was  dupli- 
cated in  the  next :  each  day  in  the  weekly  cycle  with 
the  additions  of  its  own  special  duties;  seldom  chang- 
ing, never  ending,  until,  to  Kathie,  the  novelty  be- 
came a  drudgery  and  the  drudgery  began  to  lie  upon 
her  young  shoulders  like  the  burden  of  Atlas. 

In  a  week  she  was  able  to  ride  a  horse.  In  a 
month  she  could  stick  fearlessly  on  the  bare  back  of 
Jess  when  that  equine  lady  was  in  her  most  frolic- 
some mood. 

After  all,  life  on  the  ranch,  with  all  its  labours, 
was  not  without  its  pleasures.  To  Kathie,  the  great- 
est of  these  pleasures  was  the  growing  knowledge 
that  rich,  red  blood  was  capering  merrily  in  her 
veins,  where  a  watery  fluid  had  previously  crept  slug- 
gishly onward.  Her  cheeks  no  longer  held  that 
deathly  pallor  of  a  self-condemned  invalid;  her  eyes 
were  clear  and  bright  and  her  arms  were  fast  becom- 
ing rounded  and  firm,  in  harmony  with  the  new  sen- 


Day-D  reams  39 

sation  of  suppleness  which  the  dry,  clarified  air  and 
the  open  life  were  fast  giving  to  her  entire  body. 

Gone  from  her  were  the  frailty  and  the  little 
habitual  cough;  gone  was  the  dread  thought  of  a 
weakness  inherited;  the  foolish,  yes!  the  criminal 
thought  which  creates  and  nurtures  a  bastard  child 
to  its  own  vile  imaginings  and  maims  and  kills  where 
disease  has  never  been. 

Kathie  did  not  assume  the  dowdy,  smug  rotundity, 
so  common  to  many  of  the  ranchers'  daughters.  She 
was  slender  of  figure,  though  full  and  firm  bosomed; 
her  eyes  had  caught  at  last  the  consciousness  of  the 
awakening  of  those  luscious  charms  of  womanhood 
which  had  been  lying  dormant  within  her  and  had 
only  so  lately  been  aroused  by  the  call  of  all  the 
nature-beauties  surrounding  her  daily  life  in  this 
Garden  of  Eden  where  everything  grew  and  fructi- 
fied as  in  no  other  land  or  clime. 

She  preferred  the  quiet  tenor  of  the  orchards  and 
the  wood  to  the  social  atmosphere  of  Vernock.  All 
her  precious,  spare  moments  were  spent  in  nature's 
solitude.  Few  indeed  were  the  people  privileged  to 
set  eyes  on  Kathie;  but  young  and  old  alike  who 
caught  the  glimpse,  turned  and  looked  again.  Yet, 
she  was  modestly  unconscious  of  this  effect  of  her 
presence  on  others.  She  resented  the  familiar  stare 
of  the  farm-hand  and  the  impertinent  gape  of  the 
chinaman,  as  she  did  the  patronage  of  the  visiting 
ranchers  and  the  attempted,  coarse  civilities  of  some 


40        The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

of  their  grinning  sons.  She  shunned  their  would- 
be  sociability.  When  they  called  unexpectedly,  she 
would  quietly  slip  off.  If  their  visits  were  antici- 
pated, she  kept  busy  in  the  dairy  or  in  the  barns,  out 
of  the  way.  In  her  love  of  retirement,  she  was  ap- 
plauded and  aided  by  the  cousin,  Lizbeth,  who  en- 
joyed the  field  to  herself  and  resented  even  a  sur- 
reptitious glance  in  any  feminine  direction  but  her 
own,  and  it  was  with  an  ever-increasing  sense  of  an- 
noyance that  she  perceived  in  Kathie  a  growing 
beauty  which  would  not  long  be  kept  hidden  away 
and  an  indescribable  charm  of  manner  which  she 
knew  she,  herself,  could  never  hope  to  acquire. 

In  all  the  petty  ways  of  which  only  a  jealously  dis- 
posed woman  is  mistress,  she  vented  her  wrath.  She 
increased  Kathie's  work  and,  in  the  process,  reduced 
her  own.  She  found  fault  in  everything;  she  nagged 
and  threatened,  and  succeeded  fairly  well  in  quelling 
any  spark  of  spirit  which  Kathie  might  have  pos- 
sessed. 

With  a  hopeless  kind  of  fatalism,  Kathie  bore  it 
all  quietly  and  uncomplainingly,  for  well  she  knew — 
she  had  been  reminded  only  too  often — the  humble 
position  she  filled  at  Jackson's  Ranch. 

It  never  occurred  to  Kathie  that  she  was  earning 
her  own  livelihood  in  a  land  where  woman-help  was 
scarce;  that  her  labour  had  a  considerable  market 
value;  that  dozens  of  ranchers  would  have  been  glad 
to  give  her  good  wages  in  return  for  her  services. 


Day-Dreams  41 

She  seemed  simply  to  be  looking  forward  to  the  time 
when  she  would  feel  that  the  bread  she  ate  and  the 
clothes  she  wore  were  her  very  own,  the  fruits  of 
her  own  labour,  won  by  the  skill  of  her  brain  and 
the  strength  of  her  body. 


CHAPTER  THREE 
The  Lure  of  the  Violin 

SATURDAY  afternoon  was  the  afternoon  of  the 
week  for  shopping,  visitation  and  bargaining 
among  the  ranchers  of  the  Valley. 

On  this  particular  day,  in  the  dining  room,  Colin 
Jackson  was  deep  in  a  heated  contest  for  the  exten- 
sion of  time  and  the  reduction  of  another  five  dollars 
in  the  price  per  head  of  some  cows  which  he  con- 
templated purchasing  from  the  genial  old  cattle- 
breeder,  Muir  of  Saughs  Ranch;  while,  in  the  sitting 
room,  the  only  and  spoiled  son  of  the  worthy  visitor 
was  bathing  in  adolescent  admiration  of  Lizbeth's 
lusty  charms  and  languishing  personality. 

Kathie,  as  usual  on  such  occasions,  had  betaken 
herself  to  the  out-houses.  She  was  seated  in  the 
shade  and  cool  of  the  dairy  porch,  cleaning  and 
brightening  up  the  utensils  which  she  had  recently 
been  using  at  her  work,  and  she  was  vaguely  won- 
dering how  much  longer  she  was  going  to  be  held 
in  her  self-imposed  banishment,  when  the  tattered 
but  interesting  figure  of  the  old,  country  wanderer, 
Rube  Stahl,  hobbled  across  the  yard. 

Rube    was    a  character — a    strange    being    who 

42 


The  Lure  of  the  Violin          43 

seemed  to  have  been  uprooted  too  late  in  life  to 
change  either  his  manner  or  his  calling,  who  seemed 
to  have  been  transplanted,  with  his  peculiarities 
and  disabilities,  in  a  country  he  did  not  understand 
and  one  that  did  not  understand  him. 

As  was  his  habit,  he  was  muttering  to  himself, 
with  his  head  bent,  as  he  came  along. 

Kathie  listened  and  caught  the  drift  of  his  solilo- 
quy. 

"Beezness  is  punk — beezness  is  punk — ain't  no 
damn  good.  Half  a  dollar  for  a  golt  brooch  mit 
diamonts — ach!" 

He  kept  on  repeating  his  sing-song  monotony. 

Kathie  eyed  him  curiously  and  a  little  sympatheti- 
cally, for,  although  his  face  showed  hardness  and 
dissipation,  even  cruelty,  yet  his  clothes  were  in  rags, 
his  hair  was  unkempt  and  he  was  very  old;  besides 
betraying  a  growing  frailness  brought  on  with  the 
buffetings  of  time  and  circumstances. 

Immediately  he  caught  sight  of  Kathie  in  the 
shadows,  his  movement  quickened.  With  a  grunt, 
he  deposited  a  heavy  sack  on  the  ground,  for  the 
purpose  of  giving  his  hands  free  play.  Without  the 
aid  of  his  hands,  Rube  was  unable  to  talk  convinc- 
ingly. 

"Ah, — gol-darnl"  he  exclaimed,  with  a  deferen- 
tial bow,  "it  is  zee  pretty  kid  mit  zee  night  in  her 
hair  and  zee  morning  in  her  eyes.  You  bet ! — I  haf 
sometings  ver'  ver'  beautiful  to  show  zee  dame. 


44        The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

Pretty  leetle  golt  brooches  mit  pearls,  golt  bangles 
dat  vould  make  von  prinzess  gasp;  combs  for  zee 
hair; — ya!  and  somethings  vot  will  catch  a  fine  hant- 
zome  sveetheart  everytimes." 

The  Jew  swung  a  box  in  front  of  him,  and  his 
boney  fingers  threw  up  the  lid. 

"Now ! — you  close  that  box,"  commanded  Kathie, 
with  a  smile.  "I  don't  wish  brooches,  or  bangles,  or 
combs.  I  have  no  sweetheart  and  I  have  no  imme- 
diate desire  to  be  after  getting  one." 

"Vot!"  exclaimed  Rube  in  feigned  astonishment. 
"No  sveetheart,  and  you  mit  hair  and  eyes  like 
dat  and  dese?  Ah — gol-darn!  dat  is  chust  your 
leetle  joke  and  I  von't  belief  a  vord  of  it;  no,  I 
von't  belief  it.  Ah,  ya!"  he  went  on.  "I  savvey. 
You  haf  a  leetle  quarrel  mit  him.  Dat  is  vot  is 
wrong.  But  dis  leetle  ting  in  dis  bottle  I  haf  got 
vill  fix  it  all  up  and  you  vill  kiss  and  be  friends  again, 
vonce  more,  all  over,  instantly.  Ya,  you  bet!"  he 
croaked.  "You  vill  kiss  and  be  friends — and  all 
for — "  (He  threw  out  his  hands)  "half-a-dollar. 

"Ah,  zee  pretty  hair!"  he  continued  with  a  sigh. 
"Zee  pretty,  long,  black,  glossy  hair!  Tree  feet 
long  if  it's  an  inch." 

His  fingers  almost  touched  it,  ere  Kathie  shrank 
away  in  disgust.  "Never  mind  my  hair,  Rube,  if 
you  please.  Keep  your  distance.  I  have  told  you 
already  you  are  simply  wasting  your  time  trying  to 
sell  anything  to  me." 


The  Lure  of  the  Violin          45 

"Ah,  forgeeve  me!"  fawned  the  Jew.  "But  it 
vas  so  long,  and  thick,  and  so  black.  Ya  1 — it  vas  so 
black.  Zee  very  devil  could  not  vant  blacker  hair 
dan  dat." 

Kathie  laughed,  and  the  Jew  continued  to  display 
his  wares:  yellow  bracelets,  blazing  rings,  paste 
beads  and  ribbons  galore,  all  made  to  charm  an 
Indian  maid  on  a  reservation. 

"Now !  there  isn't  a  thing  in  your  whole  stock  that 
I  need,"  she  reiterated,  "and,  even  if  there  were,  I 
haven't  a  cent  with  which  to  buy — not  a  single  cent." 

Rube  looked  disappointed. 

"Nein,  nein! — don't  say  dat,  missy.  You  haf 
moneys,  plenty  moneys; — pretty  girls  alvays  haf.  I 
von't  belief  dat.  No,  gol-darn !  I  vill  not  belief." 

"Well, — it  is  true  anyway,"  replied  Kathie. 

The  Jew  closed  up  his  box  almost  in  despair,  but 
his  nature  and  upbringing  would  not  allow  him  to 
go  away  empty-handed.  Perceiving  an  empty  bottle 
lying  a  few  feet  away,  he  went  over  and  picked  it 
up,  opened  a  corner  of  his  sack  and  deposited  it 
inside. 

Kathie  watched  in  amusement. 

"Why,  Rube ! — what  is  that  you  have  in  the  black 
box?"  she  asked,  rising  and  peering  into  the  sack 
curiously. 

"Oh, — notings  for  a  girl,"  he  remarked  off-hand- 
edly,  "it's  chust  a  coffin;  chust  a  leetle  coffin  for  a 
leetle  kid." 


46        The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

Kathie  stepped  back  with  an  exclamation  of  hor- 
ror. Her  inquisitiveness  was  more  than  assuaged. 

Rube  gave  vent  to  a  crackling  laugh. 

"Ach  I — I  vas  chust  funning,"  he  said.  "It  is  only 
chust  an  old  feedle  in  a  case.  I  bought  him  dis 
morning  for — ach!  never  mind  vot  I  paid  for  him. 
But  I  vill  sell  him  for  more  anyvays.  Ya,  you  bet ! 
I  vill  sell  him  for  more  or  I  am  no  son  of  Abra- 
ham." 

Kathie's  eyes  glowed  with  freshly  awakened  in- 
terest. 

"Oh,  won't  you  please  let  me  look  at  it?"  she 
pleaded,  drawing  closer,  "just  for  a  little,  teeny  mo- 
ment." 

"Certainly,  mein  tear,"  replied  the  affable  Rube, 
"and  you  may  look  at  him  for-efer  and  for-efer  if 
you  give  me  two  dollars, — zee  bow  and  zee  nice 
black  case  into  zee  bargain.  And  he  is  dirt  cheap 
too. 

"But,  ah!  you  are  so  pretty,  an  old  man  can't 
keep  from  giving  you  a  bargain." 

Kathie  opened  the  case  and  took  out  the  violin. 
She  tightened  up  the  pegs  and  plucked  at  the  strings 
lovingly.  Then  she  sighed  and  handed  it  back. 

"Put  it  away,"  she  said  sadly.  "You  might  as 
well  ask  me  for  two  million  dollars  as  for  two  dol- 
lars. I  have  no  money." 

"Veil,  veil  I — dat's  mighty  hard  luck,"  said  Rube, 


The  Lure  of  the  Violin          47 

scratching  his  head.  "I  thought  I  vas  going  to 
make  a  sale. 

"Say!  I  maybe  could  loan  you  dat  two  dollars 
and  you  could  pay  von  extra  next  month, — eh !" 

"No,  certainly  not!"  exclaimed  Kathie  in  annoy- 
ance. 

"All  right,  all  right!"  droned  the  Jew,  packing 
up  again. 

With  drooping  spirits  Kathie  watched  the  return 
of  the  black  case  to  the  dirty  sack. 

"Wouldn't  you  take  something  in  exchange  for 
it?"  she  asked.  "I  could  give  you  this  brooch.  See 
— it  is  gold  and  it  is  worth  far  more  than  two  dol- 
lars. You  haven't  one  in  your  box  nearly  so  good!" 

Rube  scrutinised  the  proffered  article  of  jewellery, 
shook  his  matted  grey  locks  and  handed  the  brooch 
back. 

"Nein,  nein!  I  could  not  do  it.  It  vould  chust 
be  giving  dat  fine  feedle  avay:  it  vould  inteed."  He 
looked  at  Kathie  again  with  his  crafty  eyes,  and 
sidled  alongside. 

"Mein  Gott!  vot  nice  long  hair,"  he  crooned. 
"Black  and  thick!  I  know  a  lady  in  Vernock — a 
fine,  fancy  lady,  too — who  haf  zee  same  kint  on  her 
eyebrows,  but  none  on  her  head.  Ha-ha!  Dat  is 
a  joke.  Now, — if  you  don't  haf  no  sveethearts, 
veil  den,  vhy  not  let  me  cut  off  your  hair, — snip! — 
and  zee  feedle  is  yours  for  keeps — yours  to  play  on, 
for-efer  and  for-efer  and  f or-ef er,  see !" 


48        The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

He  produced  a  pair  of  scissors  from  his  pocket. 

"Chust  von  leetle  snip,  and  it  is  off,  up  close  I 
It  von't  hurt  a  bit.  And  the  feedle  is  yours,  mit  zee 
fine  music.  Everything  is  yours — all  but  zee  hair. 
Ha-ha!  anoder  joke  for  Rube.  But,  ach!  you  can 
grow  more  again — plenty  more.  Grow  chust  like 


coral1 


Kathie  drew  away  from  him.  Her  blood  chilled 
at  his  suggestion.  What  devil  was  he  with  his  sneak- 
ing temptations  I  Exchange  her  hair — which  she 
had  cared  for  so  long;  which  her  mother  used  to 
stroke  and  tend  so  carefully,  the  pretty  rope  which 
people  sometimes  talked  about — she  would  never  do 
that  I  No,  no  I — it  was  too  horrible. 

She  shrank  farther  away. 

But  in  a  few  moments  came  the  reaction.  Her 
great,  swelling  love  for  the  violin  filled  her  bosom. 
The  music  for  which  she  had  hungered  so  long  was 
now  within  her  reach.  The  charmer  which  would 
dispel  all  her  gloom  and  all  her  troubles  I  And  she 
could  have  it  in  exchange — for  what?  A  plait  of 
hair — merely  an  adornment,  and  to  Kathie,  useless ! 
Something  which  only  attracted  attention,  and  gen- 
erally attention  of  an  undesirable  and  questionable 
nature!  Besides,  she  was  merely  a  drudge  on  a 
ranch,  without  friends.  She  had  no  one  to  feel  proud 
of  her  appearance.  What  need  she  care  how  she 
looked!  Why  should  she  not  trade  her  hair  for  a 
pleasure  worth  while,  now  that  the  chance  presented 


The  Lure  of  the  Violin          49 

itself  and  she  felt  so  inclined?  Then,  as  old  Rube 
had  said, — her  hair  would  grow  again,  and  all  that 
time  she  would  have  the  violin,  the  music, — the  old 
ballads  and  minuets.  Yes,  yes,  yes !  It  was  worth 
the  sacrifice,  if,  after  all,  it  could  really  be  called  a 
sacrifice. 

Her  bosom  rose  and  fell  rapidly. 

"Here,  Rube !"  she  panted,  as  the  old  man  was 
leaving  her,  "cut  it  off  and  give  me  the  violin.  But, 
— be  quick, — do  it  quick." 

The  Jew  turned  and  ambled  back,  showing  his 
yellow,  broken  teeth  in  a  miserly  grin. 

"Ha-ha!"  he  exclaimed,  "dat's  a  goot  girl.  Gol- 
darn! — I  knew  you  vould.  I  knew  you  vould.  Ya! 
he-he, — and  it  is  such  a  fine  feedle,  too." 

Kathie  shut  her  eyes.  Rube's  dirty  hands  reached 
up  and  his  clammy  fingers  closed  on  her  hair.  She 
could  hear  the  scissors  click  ominously. 

Rube  was,  first  of  all  and  before  everything  else, 
a  Jew.  He  was  not  quite  satisfied  with  his  original 
position.  His  fingers  were  not  close  enough  to  the 
scalp.  There  was  an  extra  inch  in  length  that  he 
almost  missed.  He  moved  the  scissors  further  up. 

A  few  long  hairs  were  already  severed  by  the 
sharp  blades,  when  the  touch  of  the  cold  steel  on 
Katie's  skin  seemed  to  awaken  her  as  from  a  trance. 
She  dashed  the  Jew's  sacrilegious  hands  away  and 
pushed  him  roughly  from  her  with  a  strength  and 


50        The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

frenzy  greater  by  far  than  she  thought  she  was 
capable  of. 

The  old  man  tottered  and  fell  in  a  heap  on  top 
of  his  sack,  with  a  cry  of  bewilderment.  Kathie 
looked  at  his  hands  in  horror,  then  she  put  her  own 
up  to  her  head  in  terrible  fear.  She  fancied  her  pre- 
cious hair  was  severed,  but,  oh,  joy  I  it  was  still  intact. 
She  tugged  it  to  make  sure,  then  she  laughed  tear- 
fully. She  kissed  it  and  kissed  it,  again  and  again, 
burying  her  face  in  its  silky  softness. 

"Ach,  mein  Gott! — vhy  are  you  so  rough,  mein 
tear?  It  isn't  goot  manners  mit  an  olt  man.  Vhy 
are  you  so  rough?  I  didn't  hurt,"  he  remonstrated. 

"Oh, — go  away, — go  away,  you  reptile!"  cried 
Kathie.  "I  hate  the  very  sight  of  you." 

"All  right, — all  right!"  he  muttered  in  renewed 
disappointment,  gathering  his  belongings  and  mak- 
ing a  fresh  start. 

"Beezness  is  punk; — beezness  is  damn  punk, — 
damn  rotten.  Half-a-dollar  for  a  golt  brooch  mit 
a  diamont, — ach !"  he  chanted  again  as  he  pulled  his 
battered  hat  tightly  over  his  head  and  crossed  the 
yard. 

Suddenly  he  turned  and  came  shuffling  back. 

"Give  me  zee  brooch,  missy,  and  you  can  haf  zee 
feedle.  It  is  robbery — damn  robbery,"  he  grum- 
bled, "but,  ach !  you  are  so  pretty,  I  chust  can't  keep 
from  giving  you  a  bargain." 

In  unbecoming  haste,  lest  the  Jew  might  be  tempt- 


The  Lure  of  the  Violin          51 

ed  to  change  his  vacillating  mind  again,  Kathie 
made  the  exchange.  Then,  with  a  cry  of  joy,  she 
darted  off,  hugging  the  violin-case  to  her  bosom. 

Across  the  orchard  she  skipped,  up  the  grassy 
knoll  and  over  to  the  other  side,  away  from  sight  of 
the  house  and  near  the  rough  log  fence  which  fringed 
the  wood  of  firs;  out  in  the  sunshine  among  the 
singing  birds  and  the  bobbing  inquisitive  gophers 
which  scampered  about  in  the  fearless  confidence  of 
a  proven  friendship.  Breathlessly,  she  seated  her- 
self on  the  mound.  She  opened  the  case  once  more 
and  took  out  the  violin.  It  was  old  and  dusty,  but, 
still,  it  was  a  violin  with  its  strings  intact,  ready  to 
be  played  on, — and  that  was  all  Kathie  cared. 

With  trembling  fingers  she  turned  the  pegs  and 
tuned  the  instrument;  and,  as  she  tightened  up  the 
bow,  she  chatted  gaily  to  the  quaint,  inquisitive,  half- 
rat,  half-rabbit,  animals,  which  sat  up  on  their  hind 
quarters  at  a  respectable  distance,  timid  and  cu- 
rious, watching  her  every  movement.  She  laughed 
to  the  birds  as  they  twittered  on  the  branches  of  the 
firs  around  her. 

Soon,  however,  she  forgot  all  of  them;  for  the 
first,  faint  strains  which  she  produced  thrilled  her 
through  and  bore  her  away,  slowly  and  sweetly,  on 
a  flowing  tide  of  memories.  Music,  grave  and  gay, 
quiet  and  thunderous,  poured  from  the  sensitive  vio- 
lin which  she  fingered.  She  forgot  how  long  it  had 
been  since  she  played  before — she  only  knew  that 


52        The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

she  was  playing  again;  that  ages  could  not  smother 
up  the  dormant  harmonies  of  her  being  and  that 
her  soul  was  at  last  experiencing  a  peace  it  had  not 
known  for  ever  so  long. 

She  saw  once  more  the  little  village  of  Bally- 
whallen;  she  imitated  the  whistling  of  the  wind  and 
the  breaking  of  the  sea  on  the  jagged  rocks;  she 
saw  the  old  barn  with  its  flaring  lights,  and  she 
heard  again  the  merry  shouts  and  jests  of  the  happy, 
carefree  dancers;  and,  ah!  glory  of  music, — in  it 
she  forgot  her  drudgery  and  her  sorrow,  her  sur- 
roundings and  the  fleeting  time. 

In  her  transport,  she  saw  nothing  of  a  shadow 
which  hung  over  her  for  a  brief  moment  ere  it  van- 
ished, shadowlike,  with  its  substance.  For,  behind 
every  shadow  is  substance  and  behind  substance 
must  be  the  light.  When  evil  befalls,  thought 
flies  to  the  shadow;  but  with  the  triumph  of 
good,  thought  glories  in  the  light.  Substance,  shut- 
ting out  the  light,  suggests  shadow.  With  the  de- 
struction of  substance,  the  shadow  dies,  but  the  light 
cannot  be  destroyed  and  remains  forever,  of  itself 
casting  no  shadow.  And,  as  the  creator  is  ever 
greater  than  that  which  he  creates,  so  also  is  light 
greater,  and  so  also  must  it  overcome  and  govern 
both  substance  and  shadow. 

Kathie  had  sought  the  lea  of  the  hill  that  she 
might  be  alone;  alone  with  her  music,  alone  in  the 
sunshine,  near  the  firs  and  the  sun-flowers  which  she 


The  Lure  of  the  Violin          53 

had  so  loved  ever  since  her  coming  to  the  Valley 
a  few  short  months  previously. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  old,  log  fence,  deep  in 
the  shade  of  the  firs,  prone  on  the  grass,  lay  another 
being  with  kindred  fancies.  He  was  scanning  the 
pages  of  a  little  book  in  happy  content.  Softly  the 
sound  of  Kathie's  music  floated  on  the  air  toward 
him,  unnoticed  at  first,  for  it  seemed  to  be  part  of 
the  atmosphere  and  the  environment  of  what  he  was 
reading.  But  ultimately  it  bore  in  on  him  that  the 
fairy  notes  were  from  some  outward  source.  En- 
thralled, he  closed  his  book.  He  listened,  scarce 
breathing  lest  he  should  disturb  and  thereby  end  such 
ethereal  transport.  The  delicacy,  the  exquisiteness, 
the  rapture,  held  him  spell-bound,  and  for  a  long 
time  he  lay  in  abandonment  to  its  witchery.  Never 
had  he  heard  such  a  co-mingling  of  laughter  and 
tears  interpreted  by  any  human,  if  human  it  were. 
For  the  listener  was  a  lover  of  music  and  had  never 
admitted,  even  to  himself,  that  there  were  no  fairies. 

At  length  he  raised  himself  from  the  grass,  bent 
on  discovering  whence  such  harmony  came.  Noise- 
lessly, he  crept  through  the  brush  to  the  fence,  to 
the  point  to  which  his  ear  guided  him,  in  the  full 
expectancy  of  witnessing  for  the  first  time  the  prog- 
ress of  a  state  ball  of  all  the  elves  and  sprites  of  the 
surrounding  hills  and  valleys.  He  peered  through 
cautiously,  but  found  himself  still  some  way  from 
the  source  of  the  music  whose  deceptive  notes  had 


54        The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

issued  in  reality  only  a  few  yards  on  the  other  side 
from  where  he  had  been  lying. 

Although  he  did  not  see  the  dancing  fairies,  the 
melodious  sweetness  still  kept  them  alive  in  his 
imagination.  He  saw  what  was  to  him  of  farther 
reaching  consequence — a  musician,  fair-skinned, 
elfin-shaped  and  simply-clad,  oblivious  of  all  about 
her,  hypnotised  and  lost  in  the  ecstasy  and  passion 
of  her  own  conception. 

He  clambered  over  the  fence  and  walked  toward 
her.  Yet  she  did  not  detect  his  proximity. 

As  he  drew  near  his  heart  stood  still,  then  it  thun- 
dered on  again.  Never  had  he  felt  as  he  did  then. 
He  was  almost  afraid — afraid  for  himself,  afraid 
for  her.  He  recognised  at  once  in  Kathie,  the  pale, 
weakly,  seemingly  helpless  creature  whom  he  had 
encountered  and  befriended  in  a  small  way  on  the 
road  a  few  months  before,  but  the  change  she  now 
presented  was  scarcely  to  be  believed: — the  glowing 
cheeks,  the  dark  eyes  asparkle  with  health  and  en- 
thusiasm, the  still  slender  but  rounded  figure:  the 
perfect,  the  inexpressible  beauty  and  charm,  sug- 
gestive of  sunshine,  honey  and  bursting  rosebuds. 

As  he  gazed,  he  began  to  doubt,  and  doubting, 
he  gazed  again  then  doubted  no  more.  He  could 
never  mistake  that  glorious  wealth  of  jet-black  hair, 
for  there  was  none  other  like  it  in  all  the  Valley. 

He  doffed  his  hat  and  listened  almost  in  reverence 
to  the  sweetness  of  the  melodies. 


The  Lure  of  the  Violin          55 

His  was  the  shadow  that  hovered  over  Kathie, 
covering  the  ground  at  her  feet.  But  in  neither  the 
substance  nor  the  shadow  was  there  any  evil. 

For  a  time  he  remained  motionless,  until  he  be- 
gan to  think  of  his  intrusion  and  the  embarrassment 
the  discovery  of  his  presence  might  occasion.  He 
bent  down  carefully  and,  at  Kathie's  side,  he  placed 
the  book  which  he  had  been  reading.  It  was  the 
impulse  of  a  fleeting  fancy  and  had  to  be  obeyed. 
Then  he  stole  away,  softly,  quietly,  as  he  had  come 
— unheard  and  unobserved. 

With  a  sigh,  Kathie  at  last  rose  and  stretched  her 
arms  to  the  feathery  clouds  that  scudded  overhead. 
Her  pent-up  passion  was  expended  now  and  she  was 
once  more  awake  to  the  call  of  the  work-a-day  world 
around  her. 

She  did  not  know  how  long  she  had  been  on  the 
mound,  but  she  was  aware  how  swiftly  the  time  al- 
ways flew  by  in  the  old  days  when  she  had  a  violin 
in  her  hands.  The  sun  had  swung  well  round  over 
the  lake,  to  the  west,  too  far  for  her  comfort.  She 
trembled  in  dread  of  the  reprimand  which  she  felt 
must  surely  follow  the  discovery  of  her  long  ab- 
sence. 

In  haste,  she  gathered  some  dry  brush  and  tangle. 
She  placed  the  violin  in  its  case  close  to  the  fence 
and  covered  it  over  carefully,  for  she  knew  she  must 
hide  it,  not  daring  yet  to  let  her  people  into  the 
secret  of  her  newly-found  treasure. 


56        The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

She  was  hurrying  away,  when  her  eyes  fell  upon 
the  book  lying  on  the  ground.  With  a  little  cry  of 
surprise,  she  picked  it  up.  She  could  not  realise 
how  it  ever  could  have  got  there :  she  had  heard  no 
one,  and  there  was  no  one  now  in  sight.  She  began 
to  feel  as  if  the  very  heavens  were  raining  favours 
upon  her. 

But  it  was  already  so  late  that  she  could  not  spare 
the  time  to  think  or  reason  the  matter  out.  She  felt 
tempted  to  put  the  book  down  again  and  leave  it 
where  she  had  found  it.  But  books  were  such 
friends;  such  good,  kind,  uplifting  friends.  The 
counter-temptation  was  too  strong;  she  placed  the 
volume  in  her  bosom,  under  her  heart,  warm  and 
snug;  then  she  sped  on  toward  the  farmhouse. 

Her  good  angel  favoured  her  still:  farmer  Muir 
had  concluded  his  business  and  he  and  his  son  were 
just  riding  off.  During  all  the  time  of  her  long  ab- 
sence, Kathie  had  not  once  been  thought  of. 

At  the  departure  of  the  visitors,  Lizbeth  hitched 
up  Jess  to  the  buggy  and  drove  in  to  Vernock.  Far 
down  the  road,  at  the  avenue  of  trees  leading  to 
the  beautiful  summer  home  and  wonderful  ranch  of 
that  old,  wealthy  Englishman  of  roving  tendencies, 
David  Menteith, — who  in  his  early  youth  had  seen 
the  Valley  and  had  possessed  himself  of  as  much 
of  it  as  he  could  purchase  or  pre-empt;  and  now,  in 
his  old  age,  was  still  held  by  its  ever-changing 
charms, — Lizbeth  picked  up  young  Crawford,  the 


The  Lure  of  the  Violin          57 

Police  Chief,  with  whom  she  had  been  carrying  on 
a  violent  flirtation  for  several  months. 

It  was  nearing  midnight  when  she  returned  to  the 
ranch — for  neither  Lizbeth  nor  Bob  Crawford  re- 
spected elders'  hours; — the  one  did  not  care  and 
the  other  boasted  of  being  well  able  to  look  after 
herself,  two  very  dangerous  conditions  of  mind  to 
get  driving  tandem. 

Kathie  had  retired  at  her  usual  hour  and,  for  the 
first  time  since  her  coming  to  the  Valley,  she  felt 
really  happy.  She  sat  down  on  the  bed  and  drew 
out  the  warm,  leather-bound  volume  from  her 
bodice. 

She  examined  it  with  interest. 

It  was  Longfellow's  "Evangeline" : — something 
she  had  often  heard  of  but  never  perused.  She 
turned  over  the  fly-leaf  in  front  and  there  read  in 
childish  hand-writing: — 

To  Alexander  Simpson,  M.A.,  from  a  few  of 
his  scholars.     Christmas,  19 — > 

Her  ears  began  to  tingle  as  her  memory  flew  back 
to  the  first  interview  she  had  had  with  her  cousin, 
Lizbeth,  when  the  latter  had  informed  her  that  the 
quiet,  manly  person  who  had  helped  her  on  her  way 
to  the  ranch  was  Mr.  Simpson,  the  Principal  of  the 
High  School  at  Vernock.  That  the  book  she  held 
was  his,  Kathie  had  no  doubt.  Then  she  began  to 
wonder  again  how  it  could  have  got  on  the  mound. 
She  had  not  noticed  it  when  she  sat  down,  although, 


58        The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

to  say  truth,  her  excitement  had  been  so  great  at  that 
time,  that  she  questioned  if  she  would  have  noticed 
a  whole  library  of  books  set  out  in  rows  on  the  hill- 
side. 

Then  she  wondered  if,  by  any  chance,  he  could 
have  been  near  her  and  could  have  heard  the  semi- 
starved  outpourings  of  her  soul. 

Her  face  became  hot  awhile,  for  in  moments  such 
as  those  she  much  preferred  to  think  that  no  one 
had  been  within  hail  of  her.  She  dismissed  her  con- 
jecture as  an  idle  fancy.  Mr.  Simpson  was  fond 
of  walking;  more  than  likely  he  had  been  that  way 
early  in  the  afternoon  and  had  been  reading  there 
where  she  sat,  then,  in  a  moment  of  forgetfulness, 
had  left  the  book  lying  on  the  grass.  She  wondered 
if  he  would  hurry  back  when  he  noticed  his  loss  and 
if  he  would  be  angry  if  he  knew  that  Colin  Jackson's 
serving  lass  had  taken  it.  She  thought  of  replacing 
it  next  morning  when  she  took  the  cows  to  their 
pasturage,  but,  finally,  she  decided  that  she  would 
take  the  pleasure  of  reading  it  through  first,  and 
after  that  the  school  teacher  could  have  it  if  he  ever 
chanced  by  way  of  the  mound  again. 

She  read  that  night  until  she  heard  Lizbeth's  foot- 
steps below,  then  she  placed  the  book  under  her  pil- 
low and  dropped  off  to  sleep. 


CHAPTER  FOUR 
High  Lights  and  Shadows 

DURING  all  the  week  which  followed  Kathie 
had  little  opportunity  for  visting  the  mound. 
Lizbeth  was  ever  beside  her  goading  her  on;  grum- 
bling and  complaining  at  the  manner  in  which  she  did 
her  work  despite  the  fact  that  Kathie  was  putting  an 
energy  into  it  which  she  had  never  equalled  since  her 
coming  West.  As  soon  as  the  old  one  was  finished, 
a  fresh  task  was  always  ready  for  her.  Lizbeth's 
face  the  while  was  masked  by  a  sneering  smile  of 
hidden  knowledge,  which  Kathie  in  her  openness 
failed  to  notice  let  alone  interpret. 

Once,  in  the  stillness  of  a  sultry  night,  Kathie  had 
been  awakened  by  the  throbbing  of  her  own  heart, 
this  organ  seeming  suddenly  to  have  grown  too  large 
for  her  body  to  contain ;  and  the  old  longing  for  her 
violin  stole  over  her.  She  covered  her  head  in  an 
effort  to  stifle  her  desire,  but  it  would  not  be  quieted. 
At  last  she  rose  softly  and  stepped  over  her  sleeping 
cousin.  The  house  was  still  and  all  was  in  dark- 
ness. She  threw  on  a  few  garments  and  tip-toed 
quietly  downstairs,  groping  her  way  past  her  uncle's 

59 


60        The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

bedroom,  through  the  kitchen  and  finally  out  into 
the  cooler  night  air. 

Her  nimble  feet  carried  her  swiftly  across  the 
turfy  grass  to  the  old  fence,  and  there,  alone  in  that, 
lonely  place,  with  the  strange  silences  of  the  woods 
around  her,  she  played  until  the  slumbering  birds 
raised  their  heads  from  under  their  wings  and  twit- 
tered back  to  her. 

And  it  was  not  until  she  perceived  the  softening 
of  the  blackness  in  the  eastern  sky,  bespeaking  the 
early  coming  of  the  morning,  that  she  reluctantly  re- 
placed her  violin  at  the  foot  of  the  fence,  covered  it 
up  carefully  and  retraced  her  footsteps. 

All  was  silent  when  she  returned  to  the  house; 
and,  with  the  same  noiselessness  with  which  she  had 
arisen,  she  crept  back  into  her  place  behind  her 
cousin,  her  body  aglow  with  exercise  and  her  mind 
overflowing  with  happiness  and  contentment. 

When  Saturday  came  again  and  Lizbeth  had  gone 
on  her  usual  journey  to  partake  of  the  pleasures  of 
the  town,  Kathie  resolved  to  return  the  school- 
teacher's book.  As  she  drove  the  cows  to  the  pas- 
ture, she  ran  up  over  the  hill  and  placed  the  volume 
on  the  grass  where  she  had  originally  found  it.  She 
saw  the  cows  scatter  over  the  range,  then  she  hur- 
ried back  and  tethered  her  horse  at  the  fence,  in- 
tent on  a  precious  hour  with  her  beloved  violin.  The 
little  book,  she  observed,  still  lay  on  the  grass  where 
she  had  placed  it.  But,  as  she  looked  a  second  time, 


High    Lights    and  Shadows       61 

she  gasped  and  rubbed  her  eyes  to  make  sure  she 
saw  aright,  for  the  copy  of  "Evangeline"  which  she 
had  left  there  had  been  bound  in  black  leather.  The 
book  which  now  lay  before  her  was  in  bright  red. 
She  picked  it  up  and  turned  it  over,  and  her  aston- 
ishment increased.  The  first  book  had  been  replaced 
by  a  volume  of  Tom  Moore's  poems.  She  almost 
cried  out  in  her  pleasure,  for  in  her  heart  there  was 
a  strong  affection  for  the  country  of  her  birth,  even 
if  it  so  happened  not  to  be  that  of  her  parents'. 
And  what  Irish  heart — or  English  heart  for  that 
matter — does  not  warm  to  the  universal  and  search- 
ing lays  of  little  Tom  Moore? 

As  Kathie  turned  over  the  leaves,  a  slip  of  white 
paper  fluttered  toward  the  ground.  She  caught  it 
smartly  before  it  fell.  One  side  of  it  bore  some 
writing.  She  read  it  over  quickly. 

"You  love  literature  and  I  love  music.  Music 
for  literature;  literature  for  music; — a  fair  ex- 
change. Have  no  fear,  I  shall  be  only  near  enough 
to  hear  and  to  enjoy;  far  enough  away  neither  to 
see  nor  to  be  seen.  A.  S." 

A  flush  surmounted  Kathie's  cheeks  and  her 
breath  came  unevenly.  She  suffered  at  once  from 
a  deluge  of  conflicting  thoughts,  for  she  hated  to 
think  of  anyone  spying  on  her.  Her  first  impulse 
was  to  throw  the  book  away,  mount  the  horse  and 
gallop  off.  But  then — this  was  her  one  best  hour 


62        The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

in  all  the  week,  and  she  could  not  bring  herself  to 
forego  it  now. 

If  the  school-teacher  only  knew  what  it  meant  to 
her  to  give  it  up,  she  thought,  he  would  have  con- 
sidered twice  before  encroaching  on  her  privacy. 
As  she  turned  to  go  away,  she  reasoned  with  her- 
self again.  Might  it  not  be  selfish  in  her  to  desire 
all  the  pleasure?  Might  not  this  lonely  man  be  hun- 
gering for  music  and  companionship  just  as  she  had 
been?  Then,  she  had  enjoyed  his  first  book  so  well 
that  she  could  not  bring  herself  to  think  of  parting 
with  the  one  she  now  held  in  her  hand  before  having 
read  it  over.  He  had  enjoyed  her  music; — his  note 
had  said  that  much.  Why  should  her  pleasure  and 
his  be  given  up?  It  really  mattered  so  little  after 
all — so  long  as  he  did  not  intrude.  And,  judging 
from  her  slight  experience  of  this  man,  he  was  not 
likely  to  do  that. 

She  tossed  her  hair  over  her  shoulder  with  the 
gesture  of  a  wild  pony  and  her  dark  eyes  sparkled 
as  she  made  the  resolve. 

She  was  going  to  play  for  the  pleasure  of  the 
school-teacher,  as  well  as  for  her  own  enjoyment. 
It  would  be  a  small  return,  after  all,  for  the  books 
he  was  putting  her  way. 

She  took  her  violin  from  its  hiding  place  and 
played  with  all  the  power,  passion  and  abandon  of 
her  nature;  at  times  lost  entirely  in  her  music,  at 
other  times  scrupulously  careful  in  her  execution  as 


High    Lights    and  Shadows       63 

she  remembered  that  somewhere  in  its  density  the 
woods  held  an  audience  silent  and  appreciative. 

And  so,  for  a  time,  the  innocent  exchange  between 
the  man  and  the  maid  went  on — books  for  music, 
music  for  books — neither  individual  seeing  the  other, 
only  their  tokens  telling  of  a  friendship  in  tastes  and 
a  harmony  of  ideas,  leaving  each  to  judge,  from  the 
nature  of  the  music  heard  and  the  books  received, 
how  it  had  fared  with  the  other  since  the  previous 
communication — whether  the  trend  of  thought  had 
been  toward  joy  or  sadness. 

There  was  a  depth  and  a  solidity,  tempered  with 
an  abiding  love  for  fellow  creatures,  in  all  the  books 
perused  by  Kathie  in  those  days,  and  they  made 
her  long  to  talk  with  the  quiet,  scholarly  man  and 
to  know  more  of  the  great  knowledge  with  which  he 
seemed  saturated. 

And  to  Alick  Simpson  as  he  lay  among  the  dry 
brush,  and  moss,  and  grass,  Saturday  after  Satur- 
day, the  soft  strains  of  that  wild,  untrammelled, 
plaintive — almost  pitiful — music  hung  over  him,  sug- 
gesting a  lost  fairy  crying  in  the  woods  as  it  searched 
and  searched  in  vain  for  the  hollow  tree  that  led 
to  its  glittering  palace-home  in  the  elfin  world  far 
underneath. 

On  the  one  hand  was  a  longing  for  sympathy  and 
support;  on  the  other  a  desire  to  encourage  and  to 
sustain:  in  both  the  natural  call  for  companionship 
and  love  which  has  gone  up  from  lonely  mortals 


64        The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

since  the  beginning  of  time.  Then,  over  all,  was 
the  stern  face  of  Mother  Convention,  glooming  on 
her  innocent  children,  Modesty  and  Reticence. 

But,  as  the  dry  summer  days  crept  toward  the 
autumn,  as  the  green  was  turning  to  gold,  the  dream- 
ers were  awakened  swiftly,  rudely  and  sure. 

Kathie  had  been  on  the  mound  for  some  time ;  her 
thoughts  far  away,  dancing  merrily  to  the  tones 
of  her  violin.  She  did  not  hear  the  pursing  sound 
of  feet  on  the  short  grass  behind  her  and,  for  a 
while,  she  did  not  see  the  shadow  which  fell  over 
her.  But  the  shadow  was  there,  dark  and  fore- 
boding, and  this  time  there  was  evil  in  the  shadow 
and  in  the  substance  behind. 

An  unusual  noise  arrested  the  upward  movement 
of  her  bow.  She  ceased  her  music  and  sprang  to  her 
feet,  nervous  and  alert. 

Before  her  stood  her  uncle  with  a  face  clouded 
and  hard;  beside  him  her  cousin  Lizbeth,  a  faint 
smile  playing  around  the  corners  of  her  ruby  mouth. 

Colin  Jackson  held  out  his  hand. 

"Give  these  to  me,"  he  commanded. 

Kathie's  eyes  held  the  ground  and  her  lips  trem- 
bled. The  discovery  she  had  so  long  dreaded  had 
been  made  at  last  and,  in  her  fear  and  dejection,  she 
scarcely  heard  him. 

"Do  you  hear  me?"  he  thundered,  "give  these  to 


me." 


Slowly  she  handed  over  her  precious  violin  and 


High    Lights    and  Shadows       65 

bow.  Her  uncle  looked  at  them  with  a  sneer,  and 
then  at  her. 

"So  we  have  found  out  the  secret  place  at  last, 
you  devil's  bairn  with  your  lady  ways  and  your  evil 
music;  with  your  modest  looks  that  hide  the  shame 
underneath.  Thank  God  you  are  only  my  sister's 
child  and  not  my  own." 

He  searched  around  as  if  looking  for  someone. 

"This  is  where  you  come  on  your  midnight 
prowls,  when  decent  folks  are  abed — is  it?  Setting 
the  neighbourhood  by  the  ears  with  stories  and  scan- 
dal and  getting  my  place  a  bad  name!  Ay! — you 
may  start,  but  that  isn't  all.  This  is  where  you  get 
the  books  you  hug  in  your  bosom  and  hide  among 
your  bedclothes.  This  is  where  you  play  to  your 
lovers,  where  your  witch's  tunes  make  blackguards 
of  decent  men,  making  honest  ranch-hands  skulk  in 
the  woods  like  poachers  or  thieves.  Like  the  fool 
you  are, — you  thought  nobody  knew?" 

Kathie's  blood  ran  cold  at  this  torrent  of  abuse. 
Something  seemed  to  be  clasping  over  her  heart. 
Her  face  grew  terribly  pale. 

She  had  thought  of  the  discovery  of  her  innocent 
amusement,  but  she  had  not  expected  this,  with  its 
allusions,  its  insinuations,  its  horrors.  She  tried  to 
speak  in  her  defence,  but  it  was  long  before  the 
words  came.  The  presence  of  her  cousin — so  cold 
and  cynical — did  not  help  her  any. 

"Don't,     uncle, — don't,"     she     wailed    at    last. 


66        The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

"Please,  oh,  please  stop!  I  cannot  bear  it.  It  is 
all  wrong.  Let  me  tell  you.  You  will  understand 
then.  Oh! — don't  look  that  way — believe  what  I 
say.  I  am  not  bad.  I  try  so  hard  to  be  good  and  to 
do  what  is  right.  But  I  have  nobody — nothing— 
oh!  listen  while  I'd  be  telling  you " 

"Not  a  word,"  he  cried.  "Do  you  want  to  make 
bad  worse?  Would  you  dare  to  set  your  voice 
against  the  men  in  the  Valley  who  have  been  watch- 
ing you  for  months?  against  Lizbeth  here  who  sleeps 
in  the  same  bed  and  uses  the  senses  the  Lord  has 
given  her?  Would  you  cry  'liar'  to  the  whole  Coun- 
tryside? This  is  the  way  you  repay  respectable-liv- 
ing folks  who  have  brought  you  here  and  kept  you 
when  you  might  have  been  living  in  some  Poor-house 
in  Dublin  or  Belfast.  If  Lizbeth  there  had  half  your 
shame,  she  would  run  and  hide  her  face,  and  you 
would  try  to  brazen  it  out. 

"Get  out  of  my  sight!"  he  cried  at  last  in  mad 
fury.  "Go  away  before  I  lose  control  of  myself  I 
This  for  your  damned  music!"  he  continued,  as  she 
turned  to  go.  With  a  snap  he  broke  the  violin, 
across  his  knee. 

Kathie  screamed  like  a  wounded  animal  and  ran 
back  to  her  uncle  in  a  futile  effort  to  save  her  instru- 
ment. 

"My  violin,  oh  my  poor,  innocent  violin!"  she 
cried,  clutching  desperately  at  the  broken  piece  which 
was  still  in  her  uncle's  hand. 


High    Lights    and  Shadows       67 

Jackson  threw  her  off  savagely  and  with  a  quick 
movement  struck  her  across  the  face  with  the  violin 
bow,  leaving  a  burning  weal  on  her  cheek.  The  act 
was  sharp  and  sudden,  but  it  was  scarcely  done  when 
Colin  Jackson  measured  his  length  upon  the  ground 
and  Alick  Simpson  was  standing  over  him  the  picture 
of  incarnate  vengeance,  his  body  poised,  his  eyes 
glittering  and  his  face  pale  and  terribly  calm. 

He  had  noticed  the  stoppage  of  the  music  and 
had  heard  the  angry  words  which  had  followed; 
and  arrived  just  in  time  to  witness  the  vicious  blow. 

"God  forgive  me  for  striking  so  miserable  coward 
as  you,"  he  cried.  "I  heard  your  lying  insinuations, 
and  forebore,  but  I  will  not  see  that  young  lady 
abused — not  if  she  is  your  slave  as  well  as  your 
relative." 

Colin  Jackson  was  a  heavy  and  a  powerful  man, 
but  he  seemed  to  have  little  desire  to  match  his 
strength  against  his  unexpected  adversary.  Assisted 
by  Lizbeth,  he  rose,  blustering  still. 

"Damn  you!  I'll  even  up  for  that  blow,  you 
young  upstart !  Yes — if  I  have  to  hound  you  from 
Vernock,"  he  shouted.  "You  and  your  hero-acting! 
— striking  a  man  twenty  years  older  than  yourself! 
A  fine  example  you  are  to  the  boys  and  girls  you 
teach!" 

"You  struck  her"  put  in  Alick  Simpson  quietly. 

"What  if  I  did?"  returned  the  rancher.  "Who 
gave  you  the  right  to  interfere  ?  Mind  your  school 


68        The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

and  your  brats,  and  leave  me  and  mine  alone.  Any- 
way, your  shame  should  be  deeper  than  hers,  for 
the  world  you  live  in  teaches  you  that  it  is  wrong 
to  meet  a  young  woman  in  the  woods  unknown  to 
her  people." 

Kathie  stepped  in  between  imperiously. 

"Please  go  away,"  she  said.  "Your  assistance 
is  not  required  here.  Your  high-handed  interfer- 
ence was  quite  unnecessary." 

She  looked  coldly  at  Alick  Simpson,  and  he  saw 
in  her  face  that  which  told  him  that  it  would  be  bet- 
ter for  him  and  for  her  that  he  obey  her  request. 

"Ay ! — go  1  And  never  set  foot  on  my  land 
again,"  interrupted  Jackson,  "or  I'll  take  a  delight 
in  setting  the  dogs  on  you.  If  that  doesn't  do,  some 
of  the  lads  about  the  ranch  will  be  glad  to  kick 
you  off  the  place." 

The  school-master  strode  up  to  the  blustering 
farmer. 

"I'm  not  afraid  of  your  threats,  Mister  Man,  and 
I'm  not  going  because  you  have  made  them.  Any 
fool  can  threaten.  I  am  going  simply  because  she 
has  asked  me.  A  little  bit  of  advice — when  you 
want  to  use  your  fists,  send  for  me.  Use  them  on  a 
man  who  can  strike  back — not  on  a  woman." 

He  raised  his  hat  and  went  slowly  away. 
****** 

During  the  week  that  followed,  Alick  Simpson's 
mind  re/verted,  again  and  again,  to  the  incident 


High    Lights    and  Shadows       69 

which  had  taken  place  on  Jackson's  ranch,  and  it 
was  with  a  tingling  feeling  of  indignation.  Try  as 
he  liked  he  could  attach  little  blame  to  himself  for 
what  had  happened;  yet  he  would  have  borne  all 
willingly  to  have  saved  the  hapless  girl  whose  only 
fault  seemed  to  be  a  love  for  the  higher  and  nobler 
things  of  life,  which  the  Jacksons,  in  their  narrow, 
selfish  groove,  never  would  be  able  to  understand 
let  alone  attain. 

Time  and  again,  in  flights  of  imagery,  he  sur- 
prised himself,  as  he  wove  round  this  strange  and 
beautiful  creature  fairy  thotights  and  fancies,  for  she 
appeared  so  much  a  part  of  the  elements  which  sur- 
rounded her,  and  yet  so  very  much  apart  from 
them. 

He  did  not  blame  her  for  the  manner  in  which 
she  had  taken  his  interference,  for  the  cold  dis- 
missal she  had  given  him;  for  well  he  knew — as 
Colin  Jackson  had  said — that  it  was  really  no  af- 
fair of  his,  and  it  would  probably  have  been  better 
had  he  turned  the  opposite  way  at  the  beginning  and 
minded  his  own  business. 

But,  at  times,  his  blood  boiled  at  the  insults  that 
this  girl's  relatives  were  heaping  on  her.  The  whole 
incident  annoyed  the  even  trend  of  his  reasonings, 
and  he  tried  hard  to  thrust  it  from  his  thoughts,  for 
he  was  a  busy  man,  and  never  before  had  he  dipped 
into  the  domestic  troubles  of  his  neighbours. 

It  was  common  talk  in  Vernock  that  Alick  Simp- 


70        The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

son  had  the  makings  of  a  bachelor  of  stubborn  cali- 
bre. Since  his  coming  there,  four  years  before,  he 
had  resisted  the  charms  and  wiles  of  the  ladies  of 
the  town  to  an  extent  bordering  upon  eccentricity. 
He  was  always  courteous,  always  considerate,  al- 
ways deferential;  but,  although  many  had  tried  to 
get  below  the  unruffled  surface  of  his  nature,  none 
had  ever  succeeded. 

Give  Alick  Simpson  boys — rough,  uncouth,  un- 
cared-for boys — and  he  would  ask  nothing  better. 
His  whole  young  life  had  been  engrossed  in  making 
men  of  boys.  And  he  had  hopes  that  in  the  years 
to  come  his  success  would  be  stamped  on  the  young 
farmers,  and  the  business  and  professional  men 
around  him,  who,  but  for  his  interest  and  encourage- 
ment, might  have  had  to  labour  for  a  pittance  as 
many  of  their  fathers  had  had  to  do  before  them. 

Little  wonder  then  that  he  felt  uneasy  and  per- 
turbed when  the  vision  of  this  dark-eyed,  black- 
haired,  country  girl,  with  her  hauteur  and  her 
passion  for  music,  arose  amid  the  calm  of  his  every- 
day life. 

As  Saturday  neared  again,  he  found  himself  rest- 
less and  anxious;  and,  earlier  than  was  his  wont,  he 
was  out  on  the  Ordlake  Road  and  making  up  over 
the  hill  toward  the  woods,  where  he  had  listened 
so  often  to  the  music  which  he  expected  never  to 
hear  again.  He  sat  down  and  waited  in  forced  pa- 
tience. He  heard  the  lowing  of  the  cattle  in  the 


High    Lights    and  Shadows       71 

hollow,  and,  hidden  among  the  foliage,  he  watched 
them  come  up  over  the  hill.  He  looked  beyond  them 
for  a  glimpse  of  the  girl  who  had  so  occupied  his 
thoughts.  But  a  pang  of  keen  disappointment  shot 
through  him,  for  instead  of  her  he  had  hoped  for, 
came  riding  vigorously  her  voluptuous  cousin, 
dressed  plainly  and  suitably  for  her  work,  but 
moulded  into  her  clothes — more  like  a  goddess  in 
appearance  than  a  farmer's  lass.  H£ r  cheeks  glowed 
with  health  and  her  teeth  shone  in  the  sun  from 
between  her  parted  lips  as  she  urged  the  animals 
along  with  a  shout  and  a  whirl  of  her  riding  whip. 

The  very  sight  of  her  would  have  been  a  delight 
to  most  men,  but,  to  Alick  Simpson  in  his  then  state 
of  mind,  she  was  merely  a  woman,  a  name, — nothing 
more. 

Unobserved  by  her,  he  turned  away.  There  was 
rage  in  his  heart  again  for  it  was  evident  to  him 
that  Kathie  was  now  no  longer  trusted  out  of  sight 
of  the  farm-house. 

He  counselled  with  himself  what  was  best  to  do. 
He  thought  of  going  boldly  to  the  house  to  inquire 
for  her,  but  he  foresaw  how  foolish  such  an  act 
would  be  and  he  knew  it  would  only  tend  to  bring 
fresh  insult  upon  himself  and  probably  upon  her  as 
well.  So  he  wended  his  way  slowly  homeward,  dis- 
pleased with  himself  and  at  loggerheads  with  every- 
thing around  him. 

Next  day,  the  longing  to  see  her,  if  only  for  a 


72        The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

moment,  seized  him  stronger  than  ever,  and  the 
afternoon  found  him  once  more  in  the  shelter  of  the 
wood  above  the  farm-house. 

Down  in  the  valley,  he  could  hear  the  rattle  of 
loosened  chains  and  he  slippery  scramble  and  clip- 
clop  of  cloven  feet  on  the  wet,  stone  flooring  of  the 
barn,  for  the  day  was  one  of  those,  quiet  and  still, 
when  the  slightest  sound  carries  for  miles. 

A  few  minutes  later,  and  the  heads  and  bodies  of 
the  cows  appeared  over  the  crest  of  the  hill. 

Alick  scarcely  dared  to  look  further,  his  fear  of 
fresh  disappointment  was  so  keen;  but,  with  a  great 
effort,  he  did  so  at  last.  And  his  heart  bounded  like 
a  school-boy's,  all  his  melancholia  fled  and  his  blood 
pulsed  and  danced  in  his  excitement,  for  she — the 
cause  of  all  his  mental  tumult — was  there,  agile  and 
beautiful  as  ever,  hurrying  along  the  cattle  and  hum- 
ming softly  to  herself  as  she  came  riding  on. 

With  an  almost  uncontrollable  impatience  he 
watched  her  pass  on  to  the  range,  and,  when  she 
had  gone,  he  vaulted  the  fence  and  seated  himself 
on  the  mound,  for  he  felt  sure  she  would  come  that 
way,  if  only  for  a  moment,  to  linger  in  the  sweet, 
sad  memory  of  the  pleasures  that  were  past. 

He  was  reading  disjointedly  when  she  returned. 
He  did  not  look  up,  but  he  heard  her  dismount  and 
he  felt  she  was  near  him. 

She  stood,  shy  and  undecided,  then  slowly  and 
gracefully  she  walked  over  to  where  he  sat.  He 


High    Lights    and  Shadows       73 

sprang  up  and  stood  before  her,  pulling  his  hat  from 
his  head.  There  was  an  unusual  pallor  on  his  face 
and  his  eager  eyes  shone  brightly. 

Alexander  Simpson  was  not  the  man  to  be  at  a 
loss  for  words — although  at  all  times  he  spoke  with 
reserve — but  he  was  speechless  in  the  presence  of 
this  wonderful  country-maid. 

Her  hair  hung  over  her  shoulder  in  a  heavy  plait, 
its  jet-black,  straying  ends  tumbling  across  her  white 
bosom  in  deep  contrast.  Her  plain,  white  blouse  was 
turned  down  around  the  collar  for  greater  freedom 
and  her  neck  rose  out  from  it  full  and  beautiful. 
Her  bared  arms  were  partly  hidden  behind  her,  and 
her  dark  eyes  held  to  the  ground  demurely.  At  last 
she  raised  them  slowly  and  they  met  his.  Neither 
one  looked  away  nor  was  ashamed  of  the  liberty 
taken.  Then  Kathie  spoke  softly  and  sweetly,  her 
voice  trembling  a  little  nervously. 

"I  did  not  know  that  you  were  here,"  she  said. 
"You  know,  you  should  not  have  come." 

"Yes, — I  know!"  replied  the  school-master,  find- 
ing voice  finally.  "I  tried — you  cannot  tell  how  hard 
I  tried — but  I  simply  could  not  stay  away.  You 
have  no  idea  how  much  I  have  missed  your  music; 
how  I  have  missed  the  pleasant  thought  of  you  be- 
ing somewhere  around  while — while  I  was  over 
there. 

"I  was  here  yesterday  and,  when  your  cousin  came 
instead  of  you,  I  could  not  contain  myself  for  the 


74        The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

fear  that  there  might  be  something  wrong.  I  came 
again  to-day,  determined  on — I  know  not  what. 
But  I  am  glad  to  see  that  all  my  fears  were  ground- 
less and  that  all  is  well  with  you." 

"There  was  extra  work  to  do  in  the  dairy  yester- 
day and  my  cousin  kindly  volunteered  to  deprive  me 
of  the  little  pleasure  I  enjoy  in  bringing  the  cattle  up 
here,"  explained  Kathie,  looking  away  from  the  blue 
eyes  that  were  searching  hers  so  intently. 

"I  wished  to  tell  you,"  continued  Alick,  "how 
sorry  I  am  for  my  impetuosity  last  time  we  met. 
I  had  no  right  to  interfere.  I  should  not  have  done 
so,  but  I  could  not  stand  idly  by  and  witness  what  I 
did.  There  was  something  controlling,  something 
impelling  me,  and  I  could  not  help  myself.  Even 
now,  so  far  as  your  uncle  is  concerned,  I  am  not 
altogether  contrite.  If  my  interference  has  brought 
no  further  trouble  upon  you,  I  do  not  regret  the 
blow  I  struck  in  your  defence.  Can  I  hope  for  a 
full  forgiveness — from  you?" 

Kathie  sighed  and  looked  at  him  again  with  re- 
newed interest. 

"There  is  nothing  to  forgive,"  she  said,  "for, 
after  all,  you  merely  acted  as  I  would  have  ex- 
pected a  man — a  real  man — to  act." 

Her  voice  faltered  slightly.  "I  can  assure  you, 
nothing  more  was  said  to  me  by  my  people.  In 
fact,  it  has  made  me  almost  afraid,  the  way  they 
have  allowed  the  matter  to  drop.  I  have  been  kept 


High    Lights    and  Shadows       75 

close  to  the  house — that  is  all.  All — except  my 
violin,  my  music!  It  is  gone,  and,  oh! — I  loved  it 
so  much." 

She  appeared  to  be  speaking  beyond  Alick  Simp- 
son, and  he  stood  by  quietly,  not  caring  to  break  into 
her  sorrow.  She  came  to  herself  again  and  turned 
away  confused.  "Oh,  what  does  it  matter! — I  have 
no  right  to  burden  you  with  my  foolish  troubles.  It 
is  really  of  no  moment  at  all,"  she  went  on  bravely, 
tossing  her  head  and  smiling  in  forced  diffidence. 

The  school-teacher  paused  a  little,  then  his  eager- 
ness carried  him  away. 

"May  I  bring  you  a  new  violin  to  replace  the 
old?"  he  asked.  "It  would  be  a  pity  to  smother  up 
your  talents  for  so  trivial  a  cause.  And — I  was 
partly  to  blame  for  its  loss,  you  know.  Besides,  I 
have  selfish  reasons  too,  for  I  have  missed  your 
music  more  than  you  can  ever  guess." 

"Oh,  no,  no !"  cried  Kathie  in  perturbation.  "Your 
motive  may  be — I  know  it  is — entirely  generous; 
but,  it  would  not  be  right."  She  dropped  into  her 
little  Irish  expressions,  as  she  did  once  in  a  long 
while.  "I  couldn't  be  thinking  of  it,  at  all,  at  all. 
The  violin  that  I  used  to  play  on  was  bought  from 
old  Rube,  the  Jew,  and,  although  I  loved  it  dearly, 
it  was  old  and  inexpensive,  and  the  loss  of  it  does 
not  matter — at  least,  not  so  very  much.  There  must 
be  no  more  music — that  is  all  it  means,"  she  con- 
cluded. And  she  sighed  again  and  turned  away. 


76        The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

"Oh, — how  foolish  I  am !  I  had  almost  forgot- 
ten," she  remarked  suddenly,  facing  him  again  and 
placing  her  hand  in  her  bosom.  "Here  is  a  book 
of  yours.  I  have  had  it  for  ever  so  long.  I  en- 
joyed it  so  much.  I  read  it  over  and  over  and  over 
again;  and  now,  I  have  brought  it  back." 

As  Alick  Simpson  took  it  from  her  he  could  feel 
its  soft  leather  covers  suffused  with  the  warmth  from 
her  body. 

"You  will  not  deny  me  this  privilege?"  he  asked 
almost  sadly,  offering  her  in  exchange  the  book  he 
had  been  making  a  pretence  of  reading  on  her  ap- 
proach. 

"I  will  not,"  she  answered  with  a  smile,  taking 
it  from  him  with  both  hands,  "because  I  cannot  deny 
myself  so  great  a  pleasure." 

She  turned  away  once  more,  as  he  stood  gazing 
at  her,  solemn  and  silent-stricken. 

A  distant  "coo-ee"  floated  up  from  tfie  farm- 
house. 

"That  is  my  cousin  calling,"  said  Kathie.  "And 
we  are  standing  right  on  the  ridge,  where  all  the 
world  can  see.  I  have  stayed  far  too  long  already. 
I  must  go  now.  Good-bye !" 

Her  black  eyelashes  brushed  her  cheeks  and  she 
held  out  her  hand  in  frank  friendliness. 

Alick  took  it  in  his.  His  eyes  grew  soft  and  his 
heart  beat  furiously. 


High    Lights    and  Shadows       77 

"Coo-ee!  Coo-ee!"  louder  and  more  imperative 
flew  up  the  call  again  from  the  steading. 

"Tell  me,"  he  asked  anxiously,  "may  I  come  some 
time  again  and  talk  with  you?" 

"Oh, — no,  no!"  she  replied,  as  warm  tints  came 
and  went  in  her  face.  "I  could  not  forbear  from 
speaking  this  time,  because,  because,  you  misunder- 
stood. But  we  must  not  meet  any  more.  You  must 
not  think  of  It.  I  have  your  book.  I  shall  read  it 
then  I  shall  place  it  here  again  for  you.  Good- 
bye!" 

Alick  released  her  hand  hopelessly  and  she  ran 
over  to  her  horse  where  it  was  cropping  grass.  She 
threw  the  reins  over  its  head,  vaulted  into  the  sad- 
dle, shook  the  reins  and  galloped  off. 

Lizbeth  was  waiting  for  Kathie  at  the  door  of 
the  barn.  She  had  been  a  distant  witness  of  part 
of  the  meeting  on  the  ridge  and  her  tongue  loosened 
as  soon  as  her  cousin  got  within  earshot. 

"For  a  new-comer,  you  are  making  great  progress 
with  the  men,"  she  sneered.  "And  the  Principal 
at  that, — a  man  who  should  have  more  sense  than 
waste  his  own  time,  and  yours." 

Kathie  was  stung  to  retort,  an  unusual  thing  for 
her  and  a  big  surprise  to  Lizbeth. 

"He  simply  passed  a  few  words  and  gave  me  a 
book  to  read,"  she  returned.  "If  that  is  all  the 
comings  and  goings  you  ever  have  with  men,  you 
won't  be  going  very  far  astray." 


78        The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

"What  do  you  mean?"  cried  Lizbeth  suspiciously. 
"Spit  it  out,  and  don't  be  hinting  and  hedging."  Then 
she  laughed  lightly.  "It's  all  right,  Kathie,"  she 
went  on  in  a  more  friendly  tone.  "It  is  your  own 
affair,  after  all.  You  keep  on  and  mind  your  own 
business ;  and  I'll  mind  mine.  You  can  have  as  many 
fellows  as  you  have  fingers  for  all  I  care,  so  long 
as  you  don't  interfere  between  Bob  Crawford  and 
me, — see !  Only,  take  my  advice — keep  them  all  out 
of  sight  of  father  Jackson; — that  is  if  you  want  to 
keep  out  of  trouble." 

This  change  of  mood  astonished  Kathie  and  put 
her  on  her  guard. 

"Kathie,"  continued  Lizbeth,  "Bob  Crawford 
said  he  might  come  down  to  the  dairy  to  see  me 
to-morrow  afternoon.  I  like  Bob— just  as  much  as 
you  seem  to  like  Simpson." 

Kathie  flushed  indignantly. 

"Now — keep  your  mouth  shut  and  don't  say  it. 
You  make  me  tired.  I  like  Crawford  as  much  as 
dad  hates  him  and  Alick  Simpson  too, — and  that's 
saying  a  whole  lot.  Say,  Kathie, — when  Bob  comes, 
you  beat  it  for  a  while  and  leave  us  to  ourselves. 
Two's  company,"  she  added,  with  a  knowing  smile, 
as  if  to  say,  "We  understand  each  other." 

Kathie  did  not  understand.  But  she  made  up 
her  mind  then  and  there  that  she  would  keep  well 
out  of  the  way  of  the  lovers. 

When  she  turned  to  go  indoors,  she  looked  across 


High    Lights    and  Shadows       79 

the  orchard  and  up  the  slope,  and  she  saw,  still 
standing  on  the  ridge  where  she  had  left  him,  sil- 
houetted against  the  sky,  the  tall,  motionless  figure 
of  the  school-teacher.  He  was  day-dreaming  over 
this  strange  creature  he  had  chanced  upon — wonder- 
ing where  she  had  received  her  education,  what  her 
environment  had  been  and  how  she  could  ever  con- 
form to  her  present  condition  of  life. 

He  knew  it  must  have  been  necessity  which  had 
driven  her  to  make  a  home  with  the  Jacksons.  He 
knew  the  relationship.  He  had  heard  stray  patches 
of  her  history  down  in  Vernock  and  recounted  by 
his  talkative  landlady,  but  all  of  it  garbled  and 
unreliable. 

He  was  interested,  more  interested  than  he  dared 
to  admit  even  to  himself,  and  something  deeper 
than  mere  interest  seemed  to  be  catching  hold  of  him. 

Kathie  had  told  him  they  must  not  meet  again, 
and  he  respected  her  too  much  to  thrust  himself 
upon  her,  but  nevertheless  he  closed  his  hands  and 
tightened  his  lips,  and  made  a  resolution  that  some 
day  he  would  find  out  for  himself  all  about  her. 


CHAPTER  FIVE 
At  the  Toot  of  the  Flute 

few  weeks  that  followed  were  dreary  and 
J.  unsatisfactory  for  Alick  Simpson.  For  the 
time  being  he  lost  all  interest  in  the  affairs  of  the 
town;  even  his  interest  for  his  scholars  flagged. 
Time  and  again  he  had  to  draw  himself  up  as  he 
found  himself  dreaming  at  his  desk  while  his  pupils 
worked  at  their  lessons.  More  and  more  in  his 
spare  hours,  he  sought  the  country,  the  hills  and  the 
solitude,  but  always  keeping  well  away  from  sight 
and  hail  of  Jackson's  Ranch,  in  deference  to  Kathie's 
expressed  wish.  He  seemed  to  have  forgotten  that 
a  book  of  his  was  in  Kathie's  keeping  and  that  he  had 
almost  promised  to  go  to  the  mound  and  exchange 
another  for  it. 

And  Kathie  lost  interest  too.  In  those  hot  days, 
when  the  sun  beat  down  relentlessly,  when  the  grass 
dried  up  and  the  sunflowers  were  no  more,  when 
everything  growing  would  have  died  but  for  the 
artificial  irrigation,  when  blossoms  turned  to  fruit 
and  gradually  ripened  for  the  harvest,  there  seemed 
to  be  nothing  that  would  liven  the  weary  drudgery 

80 


At  the  Toot  of  the  Flute         81 

of  Kathie's  dairy  work;  nothing  to  rouse  her  thoughts 
to  the  level  to  which  they  aspired:  nothing  but  the 
monotony  of  the  common-everyday. 

She  had  taken  Alick  Simpson's  book  with  her 
every  afternoon  and  had  left  it  on  the  mound  as  she 
passed  with  the  cattle  to  the  range.  She  had  re- 
turned, always  full  of  hope  and  expectancy,  only  to 
find  the  little  volume  still  lying  where  she  had  placed 
it.  With  a  sigh  she  would  pick  it  up,  put  it  in  her 
bosom  again  and  continue  toward  the  farm. 

But  one  time,  as  she  sat  down  on  the  ridge  in  a 
deeper  despondency  than  usual,  thinking  and  dream- 
ing of  the  days  gone  by;  unbidden  tears  came  to 
her  eyes  and  rolled  down  her  cheeks.  She  brushed 
them  away  almost  in  anger,  then  she  threw  herself 
prone  on  the  ground,  pulling  nervously  at  the  tufts 
of  grass  by  her  head.  Something  hard  caught  in 
her  fingers.  She  picked  it  out,  sat  up  and  looked 
at  it  curiously.  With  a  sudden  cry  she  pressed  it 
to  her  breast,  then  she  kissed  it  passionately  over 
and  over  again.  In  a  moment  more  she  was  lying 
again  upon  the  turf,  sobbing  as  if  her  heart  were 
breaking,  as  she  clutched  in  her  hand  the  bridge 
of  her  broken  violin. 

When  her  emotion  had  spent  itself  and  she  was 
prone  with  her  head  on  her  arm  in  that  drowsy, 
tranquil,  half-way  place  between  consciousness  and 
insensibility,  her  mind  slowly  became  awakened  by 
the  clear,  high-pitched,  unfamiliar  lilt  of  some 


82        The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

strange  bird.  Almost  all  the  birds  had  been  strange 
to  her  at  first,  but  gradually  she  had  grown  to  know 
each  by  his  lilt.  This  note,  however,  was  a  new  one 
to  her.  She  roused  herself  and  listened  intently  to 
the  quivering,  flute-like  tones. 

The  music  was  too  varied  for  even  a  meadow- 
lark;  too  high  and  clear  for  a  mavis.  As  she 
strained  her  ears,  the  lilt  changed  suddenly  into  a 
thousand  little  trills  and  ecstasies. 

Kathie's  curiosity  gained  the  mastery.  She  rose 
quickly  and  tip-toed  to  the  fence,  over  which  she 
clambered  silently. 

The  strange  whistling  continued,  coming  from 
somewhere  in  the  density  of  the  firs.  She  took  the 
broad,  grassy  path  between  the  trees.  Not  a  sound 
did  she  make  as  she  glided  along  over  the  springy 
turf.  On  and  on  she  went,  peering  cautiously  about 
her.  Ever  the  whistling  seemed  to  keep  the  same 
distance  away  from  her,  luring  her  on  and  still  on 
until  she  began  to  fancy  her  warbler  a  will-o'-the- 
wisp.  She  reached  almost  half-way  along  the  trail, 
when  the  whistling  ceased.  She  stood  stock-still,  all 
her  senses  on  the  alert;  her  eyes  searching  the  shrub- 
bery. Then,  with  a  fresh  burst,  the  melodious  notes 
in  weird,  trilling,  little  ripples  burst  out  from  the 
trees  on  Kathie's  left. 

Full  of  curiosity,  she  parted  the  bushes  and 
branches,  and  pushed  her  way  through,  careful  lest  a 
twig  should  crackle  under  her  feet.  As  she  worked 


At  the  Toot  of  the  Flute         83 

along,  there  came  into  her  view  a  small  clearing,  car- 
peted by  short  grass  and  flat  as  a  lawn. 

An  extraordinary  sight  presented  itself  to  her  as- 
tonished gaze  as  she  stood  there  hidden  among  the 
foliage. 

In  the  centre  of  the  lawn,  with  his  back  to  her, 
sat  a  man,  his  knees  bent  and  his  feet  crossed  in  the 
fashion  of  an  Indian  snake-charmer.  He  was  play- 
ing softly  on  a  flute;  his  head  was  swinging  slowly 
from  side  to  side  in  time  with  the  rhythm  of  his 
melody.  Scurrying  around  him,  or  sitting  upright 
on  their  hind  legs,  were  hundreds  of  squirrels, 
fathers,  mothers  and  old  grandfathers  and  grand- 
mothers of  all  sizes,  children  right  down  to  the 
tiniest  of  baby  squirrels.  They  seemed  entirely  with- 
out fear  of  the  player  and  some  of  the  more  daring 
were  even  jumping  over  his  feet  and  legs  as  if  he 
were  one  of  themselves. 

The  trees  and  the  air  were  alive  with  number- 
less birds — robins,  larks,  orioles,  chickadees,  finches, 
cat-birds  and  sparrows,  all  bursting  into  song  time 
and  again  as  if  to  show  the  flutist  how  he  ought  to 
trill  and  play. 

Kathie  watched  in  breathless  interest,  held  by  the 
peculiar  music  and  by  the  beauty  and  novelty  of  the 
scene.  As  she  watched,  she  noticed  the  flap  of  the 
man's  jacket  pocket  rise  suddenly  and  from  the  depth 
a  little  squirrel  popped  up  its  inquisitive  head  and 
bobbed  back  again.  It  was  so  unexpected,  so  amus- 


84        The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

ing,  so  ludicrous,  that  Kathie  vented  an  exclamation 
of  surprise. 

The  next  moment,  she  felt  as  if  she  could  have 
bitten  out  her  tongue,  for  the  effect  of  her  ejacula- 
tion was  instantaneous.  Fawn  and  brown  flashed  in 
all  directions  and  in  the  quickness  of  a  thought  not  a 
squirrel  or  a  bird  was  to  be  seen  anywhere  near. 

The  flutist  sprang  to  his  feet  and  darted  a  look 
around,  annoyance  showing  in  his  face. 

Kathie  gasped. 

The  Vernock  school-teacher  was  standing  only  a 
few  yards  from  her. 

From  his  back  and  from  the  huddled  position  he 
had  been  assuming  on  the  grass,  she  had  not  recog- 
nized him  before.  Now,  with  alarm  and  confusion, 
she  was  overwhelmed.  She  drew  back  to  screen  her- 
self the  more,  but  the  dead  branches  on  the  ground 
crackled  and  snapped  about  her.  Alick  Simpson 
came  forward  to  where  she  was  standing.  There 
was  no  escape  for  her.  With  her  eyes  wide,  she 
ceased  to  breathe.  She  held  her  hand  to  her  thump- 
ing heart.  The  bushes  parted  and  the  school-teacher 
pushed  through.  As  his  eyes  fell  upon  her,  his  face 
went  deathly  pale  and  he  staggered  back  a  step  or 
two. 

"Kathie  I"  he  exclaimed. 

He  hardly  knew  that  he  had  spoken.  But  Kathie 
heard,  and  a  flashing  thought  of  wonderment  went 
through  her  as  to  how  he  had  learned  her  name. 


At  the  Toot  of  the  Flute         85 

With  her  hat  swinging  in  her  hand,  she  came  for- 
ward into  the  open;  out  of  the  shadows  into  the  sun- 
shine. She  hung  her  head  and  blushed  as  she  stood 
before  him. 

"I  am  very,  very  sorry,  sir,"  she  said  demurely. 
"I  have  frightened  all  your  little  playmates  away." 

She  looked  up  suddenly  at  him.  There  was  the 
faintest  twinkle  of  merriment  in  her  eyes. 

Alick  Simpson  regained  some  of  his  wonted  com- 
posure. 

"Oh,  never  mind  about  that,"  he  replied.  "They 
will  return  as  soon  as  they  know  a  lady  visitor  has 
called  to  see  them." 

"They  may — and  again — they  may  not,"  returned 
Kathie.  "But — a  moment  ago  you  were  angry  with 
me.  I  could  read  it  in  your  face." 

"Angry !"  he  interposed  in  surprise.  "Oh,  no,  no  1 
— anything  but  angry.  A  little  astonished  at  first 
maybe ;  then  a  little  taken  aback ; — but — angry  with 
you — "  He  smiled  sadly.  "Never  angry  with  you !" 

His  eyes  spoke  his  admiration  for  the  simple  but 
pretty  picture  of  feminine  daintiness  before  him;  just 
a  little  disconcerting  to  Kathie,  who  had  expected  in- 
stead a  reprimand  for  her  intrusion. 

"But — really — "  she  went  on,  "I  was  not  aware 
that  you  were  here.  And  now  that  I  know  you  are 
not  angry,  I  shall  leave  you  to  your  music  and  to 
your — your  squirrels  and  birds." 


86        The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

"And,  if  I  maintain  that  I  am  still  angry — very 
angry?"  he  queried. 

Kathie  looked  at  him  curiously. 

"Oh ! — I  might  be  constrained  to  wait  a  few  mo- 
ments until  your  anger  melted,"  she  said. 

"Please  stay  then,"  he  insisted.  "Sit  down  upon 
my  green  table  cloth  and  be  introduced  to  my  friends. 
And — talk  to  me  for  a  little  while ;  I  have  so  wanted 
to  hear  you  talk.  I  have  wished  to  feel,  truly,  that 
you  are  not  angry  with  me  for  my  past  interference 
in  your  affairs.  I  have  been  unable  to  find  this  out, 
really  and  truly,  for,  you  know,  you  forbade  me." 

There  was  something  compelling,  cajoling,  in  the 
school-teacher's  voice;  something  akin  to  the  music 
of  his  flute;  something  earnest  and  sincere;  some- 
thing that  seemed  to  be  completely  breaking  down 
the  cold  reserve  that  Kathie  had  for  so  long  hedged 
around  herself. 

With  a  smile,  she  sat  down  at  his  bidding,  clasp- 
ing her  hands  over  her  knees.  Alick  squatted  by  her 
side. 

"You  are  very  kind,"  he  remarked. 

"Not  kind,"  she  said,  "selfish!" 

"Why  so?" 

"Because  there  are  none  to  talk  intelligently  with 
down  at  the  ranch  and  nothing  to  talk  about  but 
dollars  and  cents ;  crops,  cattle  and  milk.  It  does  get 
so  wearisome.  Why! — it  seems  ages  to  me  since  I 


At  the  Toot  of  the  Flute         87 

read  a  book  even.  The  good  fairies  do  not  leave 
books  on  the  mound  now,  as  they  used  to  do." 

She  raised  her  eyes  to  Alick's  and  a  smile  started 
at  the  corners  of  her  mouth.  She  was  mistress  of  the 
situation. 

"But,  you  know,  you  told  me  we  must  never  meet 
again." 

Kathie  sighed. 

"Yes!— and  here  I  am." 

"Oh, — this  is  simply  aji  accident,"  put  in  the 
school-teacher.  "But — tell  me,  how  did  you  dis- 
cover this  secret  fairy  glade?" 

"Well,  when  I  was  coming  back  from  the  range, 
I  sat  down  on  the  mound.  I  got  to  thinking  of  my 
poor  old  violin  and  the  happy  times  I  used  to  have 
with  it.  I  was  getting  very,  very  disconsolate,  when 
I  heard  an  unfamiliar  whistling.  I  wished,  being  of 
an  inquiring  disposition,  to  discover  what  wonderful 
bird  had  taken  up  his  abode  in  the  woods  without 
first  consulting  me." 

Alick  laughed. 

"Yes! — and  you  found  the  wonderful  bird; — a 
sort  of  whistling  crow — very  rare  in  these  parts." 

Kathie  laughed  in  turn,  and  as  she  did  so  all  her 
shyness  flew  away  and  she  felt  completely  at  ease. 

"Hardly  a  crow,  Mr.  Simpson — a  piper — a  mod- 
ern, pied  piper." 

"Explain?" 

"Well — first  you  lured  the  squirrels,  instead  of 


88        The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

the  orthodox  rats,  with  your  piping:  next — me.  I 
wonder  how  many  other  charmed  creatures  are  now 
on  their  way  here.  But  really — I  did  not  know  you 
were  such  a  musician." 

"Not  a  musician,"  returned  the  school-teacher,  his 
blue-gray  eyes  still  searching  and  admiring  Kathie's 
elfish  beauty,  "merely  a  tooter  on  the  flute !" 

"Ah,  but  it  is  music.  All  harmonious  sounds, 
whether  they  be  the  rippling  of  the  water,  the  rus- 
tling of  the  wind  in  the  trees,  the  thunder  in  the 
heavens,  the  ring  of  a  hammer  on  an  anvil,  the  soul- 
searching  vibrations  of  a  violin,  or — the  tooting  on 
a  flute — all  are  music  to  me.  And,  oh ! — how  I  hun- 
ger for  music.  Won't  you  please  play  again,  Mister 
Music-man,  before  I  go?  Won't  you  show  me  how 
you  charm  your  agile  friends  from  their  hiding  places 
in  the  trees?" 

"I  am  afraid  that  will  be  quite  a  hard  matter. 
They  are  most  timid  before  strangers.  It  took  me 
months  and  months  of  patient  persevering  to  make 
them  understand  that  I  meant  no  harm  to  them. 
But — if  you  keep  perfectly  still,  I'll  try." 

He  put  the  flute  to  his  lips  and  blew  a  few,  high, 
staccato  notes,  then  three  prolonged,  mellow  blasts. 
This  he  repeated  several  times. 

The  higher  branches  of  the  trees  immediately  be- 
came animated,  as  small  brown  heads  with  bright 
curious  eyes  peeped  out  from  everywhere.  But  no 


At  the  Toot  of  the  Flute         89 

effort  of  the  whistler  would  induce  them  to  descend 
from  their  high  altitudes.  Alick  Simpson  tried  again 
and  again;  every  kind  of  musical  artifice  of  which 
he  was  capable;  but  all  to  no  purpose. 

At  last  Kathie  sighed  and  rose  to  her  feet. 

"It  is  useless,  Mr.  Simpson,"  she  said.  "They  do 
not  love  me  or  trust  me  as  they  do  you.  I  congratu- 
late you,"  she  smiled,  "for  animals  are  said  to  be 
discerning,  discriminating, — very  particular  in  their 
choice  of  friends." 

Her  eyes  lit  up  and  twinkled  mischievously. 

"I  have  enjoyed  myself  immensely.  It  does  one 
good  to  tumble  on  something  of  this  nature  so  unex- 
pectedly. But — I  must  be  off.  Already,  I  have 
stayed  longer  than  I  ought  to  have  stayed." 

The  schoolmaster  sprang  up  also. 

"You  will  allow  me  to  see  you  to  the  edge  of  the 
wood?" 

"Oh,  yes!"  she  answered. 

He  pushed  ahead,  parting  the  bushes  and 
branches,  and  clearing  the  way  for  her.  Twice  she 
gave  him  her  hand  for  assistance  across  some  fallen 
timber  and  twice  he  thrilled  at  her  touch;  while  his 
ears  sang  at  the  sweetness  of  her  voice. 

Soon  they  were  together  on  the  level  trail  between 
the  trees,  and  only  then  did  Alick  Simpson  realize 
how  tall  she  was — merely  a  paltry  inch  shorter  than 
himself — and  how  graceful  1 


90        The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

On  nearing  the  log  fence  she  held  out  her  hand  to 
him  and  smiled,  looking  into  his  eyes.  "Good-bye," 
she  said.  "And — thank  you." 

He  kept  her  hand  in  his  longer  than  he  felt  he 
should  have  done.  He  wished  to  speak  to  her  of 
something,  but  he  dared  not.  Yet  his  eyes  declined 
to  remain  dumb  and  they  spoke  the  message  that 
was  in  his  heart.  He  bowed  to  Kathie,  then  stood 
silently  looking  after  her  as  she  went  before  him. 

At  the  fence  Kathie  stopped,  turned  slowly  and 
came  back  to  him.  Her  cheeks  were  aglow,  her  eyes 
were  bright,  her  bosom  was  rising  and  falling  riot- 
ously in  sympathy  with  her  feelings. 

"I  know  what  you  wish  to  ask,  Mr.  Simpson,  and 
it  is  kind  of  you  to  hold  back.  But  I  also  wish  it, 
for  I  feel  we  have  so  much  in  common,  so  much 
to  talk  about  with  little  or  no  opportunity  for  con- 
versation. 

"After  milking  time  on  Saturday,  I  shall  be  at  the 
clump  of  trees  away  over  there  by  the  Lake.  You 
know  the  place."  She  pointed  with  her  finger. 
"Over  yonder  I  There  it  is  vast  and  free,  with  trees 
behind  and  the  open  lake  before;  with  no  disturbers 
but  the  crows  and  the  jackdaws  quarrelling  over  the 
berries  on  the  bushes." 

The  words  fell  on  Alick  Simpson's  ears  like  the 
tinkle  of  silver  chimes;  and  before  he  could  speak 
she  had  climbed  over  the  fence. 


At  the  Toot  of  the  Flute         91 

He  heard  her  call  her  horse.  He  heard  it  whinny 
in  answer,  as  it  trotted  forward.  He  saw  her  spring 
into  the  saddle  and  disappear  over  the  crest  of  the 
hill. 


CHAPTER  SIX 
The  Tryst 

YOU  have  come,"  cried  Alick  Simpson,  rising 
from  a  log  upon  which  he  had  been  sitting  in 
the  shade  of  the  clump  of  trees  by  the  lakeside,  and 
holding  out  his  hands  in  open  welcome.  "How  glad 
I  am  and  how  afraid  I  was  that  something  would 
interfere." 

Kathie's  hand  rested  in  his  for  a  brief  moment 
as  she  returned  his  look  of  undisguised  pleasure. 

"Nothing  could  have  kept  me  away  to-day,"  she 
laughed,  "for  you  know  this  engagement  was  of  my 
making;  and  an  Irish  girl  dearly  loves  to  plan  once 
in  a  while." 

"Yes!  it  was  your  making  and  my  suggesting," 
returned  Alick.  "I  wish  all  such  suggestions  of 
mine  were  as  fruitful.  But  now  that  you  are  here 
— shall  we  take  a  row  across  the  lake  in  the  face  of 
the  breeze?  There  is  a  boat  down  there  on  the 
beach.  Or  shall  we  sit  upon  this  old  log  and  talk 
as  fancy  leads  us?" 

"Oh !  let  us  sit  and  talk,"  decided  Kathie.  "That, 
most  of  all,  is  what  I  came  for.  I  have  no  one  to 
talk  to  over  there  on  the  ranch  and  you  know  that 

92 


The  Tryst  93 

a  woman,  especially  if  she  is  from  Ireland,  must 
talk  at  times  or  die." 

"And  sometimes  a  man  must  listen  to  the  melody 
of  a  woman's  voice  or  lose  his  reason,"  replied  the 
school-teacher.  "So— you  must  talk  and  I  shall 
listen." 

Kathie  sat  down  on  the  log  from  which  Alick  had 
so  recently  risen.  He  stood  beside  her,  his  elbow 
resting  on  the  trunk  of  a  tree. 

"What  shall  I  talk  about  to  you  that  can  possibly 
interest  you?"  asked  Kathie,  looking  up  at  him. 

"Tell  me  of  yourself,"  he  cried  impetuously, 
"nothing  can  be  of  more  interest  to  me  than  that. 
Tell  me  of  the  home  you  knew  across  the  sea;  of 
the  people  you  met ;  of  the  life  you  led.  Tell  me  who 
endowed  you  with  the  manners  of  a  lady;  who 
dropped  the  cloak  of  a  master-musician  across  your 
shoulders;  whose  beauty  it  is  that  lingers  in  your 
face.  Tell  me  of  those  people,  that  I  may  remem- 
ber them  in  my  quiet  moments." 

Kathie  looked  up  and  blushed  at  his  apparent 
seriousness,  then,  as  she  sat  there,  with  her  hands 
clasped  before  her  and  her  dark  eyes  looking  to  the 
horizon,  she  told  him  in  simple  words  of  her  baby 
days;  of  her  home  by  the  sea;  of  the  love  of  her 
mother;  of  the  genius  of  her  father  which  was 
smothered  in  his  physical  weakness;  of  their  happi- 
ness and  their  poverty.  She  laughed  as  she  recount- 
ed the  pranks  they  played,  and  tears  welled  in  her 


94        The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

eyes  over  her  childhood  losses  and  disappointments. 

Alick  watched  her  intently,  joining  in  her  plea- 
sure and  sympathising  with  her  as  she  told  of  her 
sorrows.  His  heart  swelled  in  his  breast  and  a 
great  longing  filled  the  soul  of  him.  Her  frankness 
carried  him  away,  her  agile  beauty  captivated  him 
and  the  hunger  in  her  eyes  drew  him  as  a  magnet. 

He  did  not  interrupt  her  as  she  talked  on.  She 
seemed  almost  to  have  forgotten  his  presence  in  the 
thrall  of  her  reminiscences. 

She  told  him  how  her  father  had  taught  her  to 
play  on  the  violin  hour  by  hour,  day  by  day,  until  at 
last  he  had  had  to  confess  that  he  had  imparted  to 
her  all  he  knew  and  that  the  pupil  was  now  master 
of  the  teacher:  how,  one  day,  there  came  a  stout, 
well-dressed,  showy,  fancy-waist-coated  and  gold- 
ringed  individual,  offering  her  father  and  her  more 
wealth  than  they  had  known  for  years  if  they  would 
only  go  on  tour,  and  how  she  had  held  out  against 
it,  because  her  father's  health  was  gone  and  could 
not  stand  the  travel  and  further  because  she  would 
never  prostitute  the  art  she  so  loved  for  the  sake  of 
monetary  gain,  even  if,  by  so  doing,  she  should  be 
thought  old-fashioned  and  should  starve  in  the 
process. 

Her  voice  became  low  and  sorrowful  as  she  dwelt 
on  the  last  sad  days  of  all,  when  her  father  and  then 
her  mother  were  taken  away  from  her  and  she  was 
left  alone. 


The  Tryst  95 

When  all  was  told  she  sat  quiet  and  still.  Her 
bosom  rose  and  fell  unevenly  and  she  looked  away 
before  her  with  swimming  eyes. 

The  school-teacher  sat  down  on  the  ground  at 
her  feet  and  looked  into  her  face  in  heartfelt  sym- 
pathy. 

"Kathie " 

His  hand  clasped  over  hers.     She  did  not  move. 

They  remained  in  silence  for  a  while.  Overhead, 
the  crows  cawed  in  protest  at  the  intrusion  of  the 
humans. 

"My  poor,  poor  lass!"  he  whispered  at  last. 
"Now  I  know  what  the  wistful  look  in  your  eyes 
means.  You  have  sounded  the  depth  of  all  the  sor- 
rows, although  to  one  so  young  in  years  as  you  are 
life  should  only  be  beginning  and  sorrow  should  be 
merely  a  conjecture. 

"And  life  is  only  just  beginning,  Kathie — for  you 
and  for  me,  if  only  you  care  to  make  it  so. 

"I  did  not  mean  to  speak — not  yet.  But  the  crav- 
ing of  my  heart  will  not  be  silent.  I  love  you — oh, 
how  I  love  you ! — I,  who  have  never  held  a  woman 
to  my  breast;  I  who  have  grown  to  manhood  and 
am  only  now  beginning  to  understand  this  great  and 
wonderful  gift  from  God.  I  have  loved  you  since 
the  first  sweet  strains  of  your  tender  outpoured  feel- 
ings sang  through  your  violin  in  my  ears.  Ay!  I 
loved  you  ages  and  ages  before  that,  only  I  did  not 
understand.  I  love  you  now,  Kathie,  with  all  my 


96       The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

heart  and  all  my  soul,  with  the  strength  of  my  body 
and  all  the  power  of  my  mind;  with  the  great  heart- 
love  of  my  mother,  with  all  the  wild  and  wayward 
blood  of  my  forefathers  which  now  throbs  so  fiercely 
in  my  veins. 

"Kathie!  Kathie!  How  sweet  your  name  isl 
Tell  me — tell  me  that  my  first  love  and  my  only 
love  is  not  to  be  a  lonely  love? 

"We  could  be  married  right  away.  Or  I  can  wait 
your  own  sweet  will;  ay!  I  can  wait  twenty  years 
if  only  I  know  that  you  will  love  me  and  be  mine 
in  the  end. 

"Speak  to  me,  dear  heart,  tell  me  you  also — you 
also  love. 

"Forgive  me  if  I  have  been  daring,"  he  went  on 
softly,  "if  I  have  been  daring  in  the  great  and  over- 
powering love  that  would  dare  all,  and  do  all,  for 
you.  Kathie — Kathie — Kathie  I"  he  murmured. 

She  rose  slowly  from  her  seat,  extending  her  hand 
and  raising  him  with  her.  Her  eyes  were  wide  with 
sorrow  and  dread,  and  her  white  throat  trembled. 

"You  should  not  have  spoken  to  me  so,"  she  said 
in  mournful  tones,  looking  at  him  intently.  "It  has 
spoiled  everything.  And, — I  have  been  so  very, 
very  happy — oh,  so  happy.  But  it  is  always  that 
way  with  me,"  she  added  almost  bitterly,  "my  happi- 
ness never  lasts. 

"You  are  a  few  years  older  than  I  am,  but  I  seem 
to  have  lived  as  long  as  you  have.  Surely — 


The  Tryst  97 

surely  you  must  know  that  what  you  have  asked, 
that  the  rosy  picture  you  have  painted,  can  never 
be  for  us.  I  have  told  you  of  myself  and  of  my 
past,  because  I  feared  the  coming  of  this  and  I 
wished  to  stay  it;  to  warn  you  if  I  could." 

Alick  held  out  his  hands  in  protest. 

"No,  no!"  she  continued  quickly,  "you  must  listen 
further. 

"I  am  only  a  stray  child — an  odd  number — one 
of  the  many  in  this  world.  My  father  was  a  stroll- 
ing player  and  my  mother  a  poor  country  woman 
cast  adrift  by  her  people  because  she  loved.  But 
you — you  are  different.  You  have  won  honour  and 
respect,  you  have  your  work,  your  boys.  You  must 
think  of  them,  and  nothing  must  ever  interfere  or 
put  one  little  blot,  not  even  of  gossip,  upon  the  name 
and  fame  which  you  have  won  for  yourself  in  this 
Province ;  for  already — oh !  I  know  it ! — already  you 
are  reckoned  the  foremost  educationalist  in  the  Pror 
vince,  although  your  educational  methods  are  con- 
sidered by  many  as  revolutionary. 

"Mr.  Simpson,  I  know  my  own  folly,  for  I  am 
simply  a  dreamer,  just  a  foolish  little  dreamer.  But 
you  must  forgive  me — and  forget  me." 

Alick  Simpson  hung  his  head,  and  a  softened  look 
came  into  Kathie's  eyes. 

"Oh!"  she  supplicated  with  an  intensity  of  feel- 
ing, "can't  you  see — can't  you  understand?  I  have 
been  brought  here  because  I  was  homeless  and 


98        The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

friendless,  and  for  many  years  to  come  I  must  work 
for  the  people  who  have  taken  me  in  and  cared  for 
me.  You,  yourself,  have  seen  the  wildness  of  my 
uncle's  anger,  you  know  the  strength  of  my  cousin's 
dislike — but  still,  they  are  all  I  have.  I  owe  some- 
thing to  them,  and  I  must  be  loyal. 

"I  am  young.  My  uncle's  right  to  be  my  guardian 
is  the  right  of  relationship.  You  know,  also,  he 
would  never  consent  to  a  friendship  between  you  and 
me.  Why — he  has  forbidden  even  that  we  should 
see  each  other  again.  Please,  please  forget  me.  Let 
me  leave  you  and  see  you  no  more.  Try  to  find  some- 
one in  your  own  sphere — and  there  must  be  some- 
one who  could  be  all  to  you  that  a  wife  should  be. 

"I  must  go  now — good-bye,  my  own,  dear,  good 
friend." 

She  turned  from  him.  But  he  ran  after  her, 
catching  her  wrists  in  his  strong  hands. 

"Kathie — my  Kathie  I"  he  called  fiercely,  "do  not 
go.  You  must  not,  you  shall  not  go.  It  would  kill 
me  now.  There  is  something  in  your  eyes  that  bids 
me  hope  and  those  eyes  of  yours  could  never  lie  if 
they  tried  to." 

Her  eyelashes  brushed  her  cheeks  and  her  breath 
came  fast. 

She  was  melting  in  his  hands.  He  led  her  back 
gently  to  the  old  log,  and  she  did  not  seek  to  resist. 

"You  have  told  me  your  history  and  you  have 
spoken  of  your  position  and  mine.  Sit  down,  my 


The  Tryst  99 

sweet — and  let  me  tell  you  what  is  known  to  one 
man  only  in  this  great  Continent.  Then  you  shall 
judge  which  of  us  is  the  more  unworthy." 

Obedient  and  silent,  she  sat  down.  And  he  stood 
beside  her  by  the  tree. 

"Not  so  very  long  ago,"  he  commenced,  "there 
lived  in  the  North  of  Scotland  a  proud  Squire  who 
could  trace  his  lineage  for  six  hundred  years.  All 
the  broad  acres  for  miles  around,  further  than  hu- 
man eye  could  scan,  were  his. 

"He  wooed  and  married  one  of  the  first  ladies  in 
the  land — a  tender,  noble  woman  with  the  heart  of 
an  angel. 

"The  Squire  was  a  gay,  pleasure-loving  spend- 
thrift who  in  his  later  years  became  a  drunkard — 
and  worse.  Bit  by  bit  his  estates  became  mortgaged. 
His  wife's  fortune  was  swept  away  with  that  of  his 
own,  swallowed  up  in  paying  for  his  banquetting  and 
his  gambling  debts.  At  last,  she  died — broken- 
hearted— leaving  a  husband  and  an  only  son,  both 
driving  headlong  to  ruin. 

"What  the  father  had  become,  he  taught  his  son 
to  be;  and,  with  his  father's  blood  in  his  veins  and 
the  example  of  his  father's  wild  orgies  ever  before 
him,  he  outran  his  sire  in  all  that  was  evil. 

"When  the  sire  died — the  aftermath  of  a  terrible 
dissipation — his  fortune,  and  the  vast  lands  which 
had  taken  centuries  to  build  up  and  the  blood  of  a 


ioo      The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

hundred  heroes  to  cement  and  hold,  were  gone — and 
the  son  was  left  penniless  and  without  a  friend. 

"For  a  time,  the  shock  of  all  this  steadied  the 
young  man,  and  he  tried  hard  to  live  as  a  gentleman 
should.  He  succeeded  in  winning  the  heart  and 
hand  of  one  of  the  sweetest  and  gentlest  of  God's 
creations.  How  it  ever  came  about,  only  the  Great 
Architect  of  the  Universe  can  tell,  for  the  debauches 
of  the  son  and  the  father  were  known  broadcast 
throughout  the  land. 

"With  his  hands  and  his  head,  the  son  worked 
honestly  and  soberly  for  two  years,  and  happiness 
was  his  in  a  little  cottage  in  a  country  town.  But, 
one  day,  he  was  blamed  for  the  act  of  another  and 
was  dismissed  with  ignominy  from  his  employment. 

"That  night  he  arrived  home  crazed  with  drink 
— and  never  again  was  he  known  to  be  sober.  The 
little  home  in  the  country  was  broken  up ;  the  slums 
in  the  city  became  their  habitation. 

"The  tender  young  wife  faded  like  an  early  flower 
nipped  by  the  frost  in  Spring.  Lying  on  a  bundle 
of  straw,  in  a  dark  corner  of  a  dismal  room,  she 
passed  away,  leaving  a  little  son  whimpering  at  her 
side  for  the  warmth  and  comfort  his  mother  could 
no  longer  give;  while  that  little  boy's  father  was 
reeling  through  the  streets  in  mental  oblivion. 

"That  baby's  first  nutriment  was  gin  and  water 
fed  through  a  bottle  by  a  drunken  parent. 


The  Tryst  101 

"Next  day,  the  body  of  the  father  was  found  float- 
ing on  the  muddy  waters  of  the  Firth. 

"The  child  was  found,  cold  and  almost  dead.  He 
was  cared  for  by  a  kindly  woman,  who,  although 
already  nourishing  her  own  infant,  had  still  a  little  to 
spare  for  a  poor,  orphan  waif. 

"A  noble  soldier — who  still  lives  to  witness  the 
results  of  his  kindness — heard  the  story  and  took  an 
interest  in  the  bairn.  He  saw  to  its  proper  upbring- 
ing and  to  its  education,  never  for  a  moment  for- 
getting his  self-imposed  charge,  although,  at  times, 
serving  his  country  at  its  uttermost  outposts.  He 
made  a  man  of  this  little  foundling — a  man  with  a 
heart  that  is  ever  ready  in  the  service  of  every  child 
that  breathes. 

"The  grandsire  of  my  story  was  the  well-known 
Alexander  Simpson  of  Glen  Uiske;  the  suicide  was 
his  son.  And  I — I  was  the  orphan  babe." 

Alick  seated  himself  on  the  log  by  the  side  of 
Kathie  and  his  earnest  face  was  close  to  hers. 

For  a  time  they  sat  thus.    Then  Alick  spoke  again. 

"Kathie,  dearest. — I  have  nothing  to  offer  you 
but  myself.  I  am  descended  from  God-knows- 
what;  but  this  I  do  know, — I  love  you  dearly  and 
I  want  you  for  my  very  own.  With  me,  yours  cannot 
be  the  ancestral  castle  and  it  shall  not  be  the  drunk- 
ard's hovel.  I  can  offer  you  the  happiness  of  a  home 
in  this  great  and  glorious  West,  a  home  set  up  by 
honest  toil,  where  neither  the  temptations  of  the 


102      The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

castle  nor  the  horrors  of  the  hovel  shall  ever  pene- 
trate, where  happiness  shall  be  our  watchword  and 
love  our  very  life." 

Suddenly,  with  a  wild  cry  which  was  caught  up 
by  the  hovering  birds  as  they  circled  wide,  Kathie 
threw  her  arms  around  Alick's  neck. 

"Oh! — I  don't  care — I  don't  care,"  she  sobbed. 
"I  love  you — I  love  you.  You  are  mine,  Alick,  you 
were  always  mine." 

She  laid  her  head  on  his  shoulder  and  wept  quietly. 

Alick  stroked  her  hair  until  she  became  calm 
again. 

"My  little  girl  I    My  dear  little  girl !"  he  crooned. 

She  raised  her  head  and  her  eyes  looked  into  his. 
She  took  his  face  in  her  hands  and  she  kissed  him 
on  the  lips. 

"Now,  Kathie,  sweetheart,"  said  Alick  at  last, 
"however  unpleasant  the  task  may  be,  I  must  tell 
your  uncle  of  this." 

But  dread  showed  again  in  Kathie's  face.  In 
those  sweet  moments  she  had  forgotten  the  people 
who  claimed  her  almost  body  and  soul. 

"Oh,  no,  Alick  1"  she  said.  "Please, — not  yet  I 
Leave  us  alone  with  our  love  for  a  while — just  you 
and  I  together  in  this! 

"You  must  know  that  my  uncle  will  never  agree 
to  any  proposal  you  may  make  regarding  me  and 
that  I  must  do  his  bidding  in  this  or  wait  until  I 
reach  the  age  when  I  can  follow  the  dictates  of  my 


The  Tryst  103 

own  heart  with  a  free  will  and  a  clear  conscience. 
That  was  what  my  father  taught  me,  and,  above  all 
things,  I  wish  to  live  up  to  my  father's  teachings, 
for  he  was  kind  and  good,  and  he  always  knew  what 
was  best. 

"Alick,  my  love,  these  years  will  not  be  lost,  for 
although  you  and  I  must  not  be  seen  together  with 
the  frequency  that  awakens  scandal,  we  can  still 
meet  now  and  again  out  here  by  the  lake  or  up  there 
by  the  wood. 

"My  work  is  hard  and  my  burdens  are  sometimes 
greater  than  I  feel  I  can  bear,  because  no  one  at  the 
ranch  has  any  love  or  friendship  to  give  me;  but 
there  goes  with  it,  all  the  same,  a  glorious  health 
that  I  never  knew  until  I  came  to  this  wonderful 
Okanagan  Valley.  Why! — when  you  saw  me  first 
I  was  pale  and  thin  and  worn;  the  suggestion  of  a 
dread  disease  clung  around  me  like  a  shroud.  That 
has  all  gone  now.  My  cheeks  glow,  my  arms  are 
full  and  firm,  my  body  is  supple  and  strong.  It 
has  surely  been  worth  it  all,  Alick; — and  more  be- 
sides. And,  I  must  stay  by  the  ranch  yet  a  little 
while,  if  only  to  secure  and  insure  for  all  time — for 
you  and  for  me — the  health  to  which  I  can  now  lay 
claim." 

She  laid  her  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"You  will  not  be  impetuous, — Alick,  Xou  will 
wait  until — until  I  am  ready." 


104      The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

"Why,  yes,  my  darling,  I  promise  that,"  he  an- 
swered quickly,  with  a  merry  laugh.  "I  know  I  have 
your  love,  and  nothing  else  matters.  I  will  wait  un- 
til your  own  good  time." 

"Then  it  is  a  bargain  between  us,"  she  cried 
gaily,  "our  first  bargain.  When  my  difficulties  are 
all  swept  away  and  my  conscience  is  clear,  I  will 
come  to  you,  I  will  lay  my  hands  on  your  broad 
shoulders,  I  will  look  into  your  eyes  and  I  will  say, 
'Alick,  my  own,  I  am  ready  now/ '  Her  clear 
rippling  laugh  rang  out  as  she  concluded. 

Alick  caught  her  in  his  arms  and  sealed  the  com- 
pact. 

"Now,  my  dear,"  he  said,  "that  relentless  sun  is 
hurrying  on  his  western  journey  and  dipping  as  he 
goes.  Before  you  leave  me,  though,  I  should  like 
to  do  one  service  for  you.  You  are  a  lonely  young 
lady — you  never  have  the  companionship  of  a  true 
and  loving  woman.  I  know  one — the  dearest,  sweet- 
est and  most  motherly  woman  I  have  ever  met.  She 
is  getting  on  in  years  now  and  she  has  no  children 
of  her  own.  If  I  speak  to  her  of  you,  will  you  visit 
her  sometimes  and  make  her  your  confidant?  She 
would  help  you  if  ever  you  were  worried  about  any- 
thing." 

"Thanks,  Alick!  I  shall,  and  gladly,  for  often  I 
long  for  a  lady  friend  in  whom  I  can  trust.  Tell 
me  who  she  is?" 


The  Tryst  105 

"Her  name  is  Mrs.  Gray,"  he  answered.  "Her 
home  is  over  there  on  the  other  side  of  the  wood,  at 
Broadacres.  Her  husband  is  Captain  Gray,  the  fin- 
est gentleman  that  ever  wore  the  King's  uniform." 

Kathie  looked  away  without  a  word.  Her  face 
was  solemn  again. 

"Why,  Kathie  dearest — what  is  wrong?  Have 
I  said  anything  to  hurt  you?" 

She  shook  her  head  sadly. 

"No,  no ! — but,  of  all  places,  I  dare  not  go  there. 
Captain  Gray  is  considered  by  my  uncle  to  be  my 
uncle's  greatest  enemy.  Surely  you  know  that  but 
for  his  coming  when  he  did  we  would  now  be  occu- 
pying Broadacres  Ranch,  instead  of  being  where  we 
are.  My  uncle  was  on  the  point  of  closing  a  deal 
for  it  on  a  rental  basis,  when  Captain  Gray  stepped 
in  and  made  a  better  offer.  At  least,  that  is  how  I 
understand  it.  And  everyone  knows  that  Broad- 
acres  is  the  finest  Ranch  in  the  Valley;  and  cheap  at 
any  price.  Tom  Semple  left  my  uncle  too,  to  be  Cap- 
tain Gray's  Ranch-foreman ;  and  everything  has  gone 
wrong  with  us  since  Tom  left.  My  uncle  detests  the 
name  of  Captain  Gray.  He  will  not  allow  it  to  be 
spoken  in  the  house.  And  it  would  rouse  the  demon 
in  him  if  it  ever  came  to  his  knowledge  that  I  had 
visited  there. 

"Don't  you  worry  about  me,  Alick.  I  shall  be  all 
right;  no  harm  shall  come  to  me.  All  the  shadows 


106      The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

will  clear  away  when  the  sun  comes  up  again  in  the 
morning." 

They  kissed  each  other  tenderly,  and  Kathie  left 
Alick  with  his  newly-found  happiness,  nursing  her 
own  in  a  clamorous  bosom. 


CHAPTER  SEVEN 
Storm  Fiends 

AS  time  went  on  the  work  of  the  barn  and  dairy 
was  left  more  and  more  in  Kathie's  expert 
hands.  And  she  preferred  it  so,  for  it  meant  relying 
on  her  own  judgment  in  the  execution  of  her  duties, 
without  the  continual  dread  of  unnecessary  interfer- 
ence. 

True,  she  had  the  company  of  Lizbeth  in  the  dairy 
now  and  again.  But  only  when  Lizbeth  had  an  ul- 
terior motive  for  being  there. 

The  dairy  was  a  favourite  rendezvous  for  Bob 
Crawford  during  his  clandestine  visits.  And,  when 
he  put  in  an  appearance  there,  Kathie  gladly  sur- 
rendered her  place  and  sought  work  elsewhere,  and 
that  without  having  to  receive  any  eye-signals  from 
her  sly  cousin. 

Crawford  was  not  allowed  the  privileges  of  a 
recognised  suitor,  for  Colin  Jackson  had  other  and 
more  ambitious  plans  for  his  daughter's  future. 

Impoverished  as  the  rancher  was,  he  had  never 
begrudged  money  when  it  meant  dressing  Lizbeth 
out  as  a  lady,  for  he  had  constant  hopes  that  sooner 
or  later  she  would  make  a  match  with  one  or  other 

107 


108      The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

of  his  more  wealthy  neighbours,  a  match  which  might 
relieve  him  of  some  of  his  pressing  financial  difficul- 
ties. 

And  it  was  because  of  this  that  Lizbeth  and  Craw- 
ford met  in  secret  when  and  where  they  could.  Often 
it  was  in  the  dairy,  when  they  knew  Colin  Jackson 
would  be  out  of  the  way  for  an  hour  or  two.  At 
times  it  was  among  the  trees  in  the  Avenue  leading 
to  Sir  David  Menteith's  great  home;  and  more  than 
once  Lizbeth  had  slipped  out  from  her  bedroom  in 
the  dead  of  night,  when  all  the  others  were  sup- 
posedly asleep,  to  keep  company  with  Crawford  by 
the  lake  or  in  the  wood,  when  he  happened  to  be  in 
cither  direction  on  some  night  duty. 

Crawford  was  a  tall,  broad-shouldered,  thin- 
limbed,  well  set  up  young  fellow.  He  had  been  in 
the  Valley  for  a  number  of  years  and  was  well 
known.  His  picturesque  garb  and  his  easy  swinging 
gait  as  he  strode  along,  or  his  devil-may-care  dash 
as  he  galloped  on  his  horse,  caused  men  as  well  as 
women  to  take  a  second  look  in  his  direction.  He 
was  swarthy  skinned  and  dark  eyed;  and  he  wore 
that  dash  of  don't-give-a-rip  on  his  face  that  seldom 
fails  to  attract  good  women  and  bad  alike  to  its 
owner.  He  was  a  good  hearted  fellow  in  the  main 
and  he  had  an  inveterate  love  for  animals.  But  his 
eyes  and  lips  suggested  a  recklessness  in  morals, 
which,  now  and  again,  betrayed  itself  rather  openly 
in  an  over-fondness  for  liquor.  Crawford  was  a 


Storm  Fiends  109 

man  whom  a  good  woman  might  have  moulded  into 
a  steady,  honest  husband,  but  Lizbeth  Jackson  was 
hardly  the  woman  to  work  a  reformation  of  any 
kind  on  anybody.  And  he  would  have  been  a  dar- 
ing man  indeed  who  had  attempted  a  prophecy  on 
the  outcome  of  this  friendship  which  was  so  rapidly 
springing  up  between  the  pair. 

All  too  quickly  for  Kathie,  the  summer  days  had 
flown  and  the  autumn  with  its  fading  foliage  and  its 
golden  sunsets  had  crept  stealthily  away  in  its  wake, 
goaded  from  behind  by  the  cold  rain  and  chilling 
gusts  of  November. 

The  fields  had  long  been  stripped  of  their  ver- 
dure and  the  fruit  trees  now  stood  up,  stark  and 
naked  and  gaunt,  like  an  army  of  skeletons. 

The  apple  harvest  and  the  small  fruits  had  been 
gathered,  packed  and  shipped;  the  barns  were  full 
of  grain  and  alfalfa;  the  hard  work  of  the  ranch- 
ers' busy  season  was  over.  And  now,  the  first  snow 
of  the  winter  had  arrived,  strewing  all  around  with 
a  tiresome  monotony  of  white — pure  as  a  winding 
sheet.  The  dry  snow  had  been  falling  steadily  and 
heavily  all  over  the  Valley  for  twenty-four  hours, 
and  still  there  was  no  sign  of  an  uplift. 

The  laden  sky  hung  low  overhead  like  a  pall,  as 
a  penetrating  wind  from  between  the  hills  swirled 
around  the  outhouses  with  the  mournful  wail  of  a 
banshee.  All  other  sounds  were  muffled  or  stifled 


no      The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

by  the  oppression  of  the  elements;  and  all  humanity 
who  could  were  gathered  around  their  fireplaces  for 
warmth  and  comfort. 

Early  that  forenoon,  Lizbeth  had  driven  into  Ver- 
nock  when  the  roads  were  more  passable.  So  far, 
she  had  not  returned.  As  usual,  Kathie  was  left  to 
look  after  the  cattle.  All  morning  she  had  been  busy 
in  the  barn,  cleaning,  milking  and  stall-feeding;  all 
afternoon  she  had  gone  over  the  process  again,  in 
soul-wearying  repetition.  And  now,  in  the  dairy,  her 
flagging  energies  were  being  concentrated  in  get- 
ting the  milk  ready  for  the  evening  distribution.  She 
was  working  hard  and  rapidly,  for  the  raw  cold  felt 
as  if  it  were  eating  into  her  flesh  and  chilling  her 
very  heart.  Her  bare  arms  were  red  with  exposure 
and  little  patches  of  skin  were  peeled  from  her 
fingers  through  contact  with  the  clinging,  frozen 
handles  of  the  heavy,  bottom-leaded  milk-cans. 

She  straightened  up  her  back  at  last  with  a  sigh 
and  rubbed  at  the  dimmed,  frosted  glass  of  the  win- 
dow with  her  apron.  She  peered  through  at  the 
storm,  but  her  eyes  could  not  penetrate  the  feath- 
ered veil  which  was  driving  in  the  teeth  of  the  wind, 
hard  against  the  window  pane. 

No  other  sounds  disturbed  the  stillness,  save  her 
own  laboured  breathing  and  the  echoing  clang  of  her 
tin  measure  against  the  buckets  and  the  irritating 
rattle  of  the  tin  cans  on  the  cement  flooring. 

The  dreary  outlook,  the  ghostly  silence,  the  lone- 


Storm  Fiends  in 

liness  and  the  gathering  gloom  sent  a  shiver  through 
the  scantily-clad  girl.  She  set  to  work  once  more 
with  augmented  vigour,  in  her  anxiety  to  be  through 
with  it  all  and  to  get  to  the  warmth  of  the  kitchen 
where  she  knew  the  cheery  blaze  of  the  open  fire 
would  soon  counteract  the  effects  of  the  cold  on  her 
drooping  °pirits. 

Without  warning,  the  dairy  door  flew  back  on  its 
hinges,  striking  the  wall  in  force  as  a  rush  of  cold 
air  swirled  around  the  dairy.  A  tall  figure  strode 
in,  caught  the  door  quickly  and  swung  it  closed  again 
full  in  the  face  of  the  storm.  A  shower  of  dry, 
powdery  snow  tumbled  about  him  on  to  the  floor. 

Kathie  looked  up  hurriedly  from  her  work,  and  at 
a  glance,  even  in  the  semi-darkness,  she  recognised 
the  tall,  sinewy  form  as  that  of  Crawford,  the 
police  chief.  Full  well  she  knew  that  she  was  not 
the  object  of  his  visit,  so  she  went  on  pouring  the 
milk  from  the  wooden  buckets  into  the  cans,  setting 
the  latter,  when  full,  high  up  on  the  shelves  above 
her. 

Crawford  turned  down  the  collar  of  his  coat  and 
shook  himself  like  a  healthy  animal.  He  pulled  off 
his  gloves  and  blew  on  his  hands.  Next  he  swung 
his  arms  and  stamped  his  feet  in  an  effort  to  accel- 
erate his  partially  frozen  circulation. 

"Ugh  I"  he  exclaimed,  "but  that's  a  blizzard  for 
you.  The  wind  bites  right  through  to  the  bone.  I'm 
thinking,  Liz,  you  will  have  your  work  cut  out  find- 


112      The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

ing  your  way  back  to  the  kitchen.  The  snow  is  two 
feet  deep  if  it's  an  inch." 

"Phee-ugh!"  he  whistled  in  feigned  surprise,  as 
his  eyes  got  accustomed  to  the  altered  light,  "so  it 
ain't  Liz  after  all.  It's  the  little  Music  Witch.  If 
this  ain't  what  I  call  real  good  luck!" 

Kathie  turned  and  faced  him. 

"Lizbeth  went  to  Vernock  this  morning  to  make 
some  purchases  at  The  Hudson's  Bay  Store.  We 
expected  her  back  by  this  time,  so  if  you  go  down 
the  road  a  bit,  Mr.  Crawford,  you  are  almost  cer- 
tain to  meet  her,"  she  put  in  quickly,  her  woman's 
intuition  detecting  something  in  his  tone  that  she  did 
not  like  and  that  she  was  a  little  afraid  of. 

"You — don't — say!"  he  bantered.  "Now,  ain't 
that  just  the  broadest  kind  of  a  hint.  You  want  me 
to  face  that  out  there  again  on  the  mere  off-chance 
of  meeting  Lizbeth — and  you  in  here  all  by  your 
lonesome.  Not  on  your  life !  Not  by  a  jugful ! 

"I'm  just  going  to  sit  on  the  bench  here  and  watch 
you  for  a  while.  That  is,  if  you  don't  mind,"  he 
added  with  an  elaborate  bow. 

"I  cannot  prevent  you  from  doing  as  you  wish, 
Mr.  Crawford,  but  if  Lizbeth  happens  in  she  may 
not  see  it  in  the  same  light  as  you  do." 

"Lord! — that's  no  dream  either,"  he  answered 
whimsically,  scratching  his  forehead  in  thought. 
"And  she's  got  a  devil  of  a  temper  too.  But  I  should 
worry!  We'll  just  forget  about  her  for  a  while, 


Storm  Fiends  113 

if  you  don't  mind.  I  never  get  a  chance  to  talk  to 
you  anyway.  Nobody  does — except  maybe  the  Ver- 
nock  school-man ;  you  know — the  fellow  you  used  to 
play  the  fiddle  to.  Eh, — little  Miss  Sly  Puss  I" 

Kathie's  cheeks  flushed  scarlet  as  she  wondered 
what  he  knew  about  her  music  and  her  meetings. 

"If  you  wish  to  remain  here,  Mr.  Crawford,  you 
will  please  talk  of  something  else.  Better  still,  you 
won't  talk  at  all,"  she  retorted  with  dignity.  "I 
have  work  to  do  and  I  am  anxious  to  get  it  done 
quickly.  It  isn't  too  enjoyable  out  here  in  the  cold; 
even  you  should  know  that." 

"By  gosh  I  You  are  right,  Kathie,"  he  said  a  lit- 
tle sympathetically,  swinging  his  legs.  "It's  a  damned 
shame  to  have  you  puddling  around  here  among  this 
freezing  stuff,  and  these  pretty  little  arms  of  yours 
all  exposed — and  on  a  day  like  this  too." 

Kathie  was  moving  across  the  dairy  floor,  as 
Crawford  spoke.  He  put  out  his  hand  as  she  passed 
him  and  touched  her  bare  arm,  as  if  merely  to  em- 
phasise his  remarks.  Kathie  sprang  away  with  the 
same  loathing  as  she  would  have  done  from  an  ad- 
der. Her  eyes  flashed  and  she  clenched  her  hands. 
But  she  suddenly  swallowed  her  anger  and  contin- 
ued her  work  in  silence. 

"Quite  a  little  spit-fire,  eh!"  he  went  on  sarcas- 
tically. "Runs  in  the  blood." 

Kathie  felt  uneasy;  primarily  for  herself,  but 
for  her  cousin  as  well  for  it  was  long  past  Lizbeth's 


114      The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

time  to  be  home  and  it  was  within  the  bounds  of 
possibility  that  she  had  been  caught  in  the  storm 
somewhere  and  was  unable  either  to  proceed  with' 
the  buggy  or  go  back.  Furthermore,  Kathie  felt 
that  there  had  been  a  secret  arrangement  between 
Lizbeth  and  Crawford  to  meet  in  the  dairy.  And 
when  her  cousin  did  ultimately  get  home  she  knew 
the  dairy  would  be  the  first  place  she  would  make 
for. 

Kathie  had  no  desire  to  be  found  alone  in  the  com- 
pany of  her  cousin's  sweetheart. 

"Don't  you  think  you  ought  to  go  and  meet  Liz- 
beth?" she  suggested.  "If  I  were  a  man,  I  would. 
Not  expecting  the  snow  so  soon  nor  so  much  of  it, 
she  did  not  take  the  cutter.  Likely  as  not,  the  buggy 
is  causing  her  trouble  on  the  road.  There  is  no  say- 
ing what  may  happen  to  her  on  an  afternoon  like 
this." 

"Yep!  You're  right  there,"  he  agreed  easily, 
"there's  no  saying — and  I've  as  good  a  chance  of 
meeting  her  here  as  I  have  out  in  that  snowstorm  I" 

His  remark  merely  confirmed  Kathie's  previous 
conjecture,  and  it  was  the  means  of  increasing  her 
anxiety. 

"Guess  you're  scared  she  might  be  jealous,"  he 
continued,  following  her  admiringly  with  his  eyes. 
"And  what  if  she  were? 

"You're  not  such  a  big  cheery  armful  as  Liz,"  he 
said  coarsely,  "but,  by  gosh  I  there's  the  same  differ- 


Storm  Fiends  115 

ence  between  you  and  her  as  there  is  between  a  peach 
and  an  apple — and  you're  the  peach, — you  bet.  I 
prefer  a  peach  to  an  apple  any  day.  Ha-ha !  That's 
pretty  good  now  for  a  lout  of  a  country  cop  like  me. 
Isn't  it  now,  Kathie?" 

She  felt  her  blood  go  hot  and  cold  alternately. 

"You  must  not  speak  to  me  like  that,"  she  said 
quietly.  "You  profess  to  be  a  gentleman — in  your 
own  way.  Act  like  one,  and  so  make  me  believe  it 
too." 

"Ho-ho,  hoity-toity,  saucy-sally!"  he  droned,  not 
in  the  slightest  way  perturbed  and  looking  her  over 
impudently.  "Damned  if  I  don't  like  you  the  bet- 
ter for  it.  Say! — I'll  go  right  back  to  Sunday  school 
again  if  you'll  only  promise  to  be  my  teacher.  And 
you  might  make  something  of  me  too.  Wouldn't  you 
like  to  try  to  make  me  a  good  little  boy,  Kathie?" 

Kathie  continued  her  work.  She  felt  his  gaze 
upon  her  and  her  heart  was  beating  fast. 

"Ain't  you  going  to  be  friends  and  talk  to  a  fel- 
low?" he  asked.  "Why,  I  might  as  well  go  outside 
and  talk  to  the  hitching  post." 

"You  might  as  well,"  answered  Kathie,  "and  the 
post  would  probably  have  no  objections !" 

Crawford  laughed.  "Quick  in  the  uptake  too, — 
eh!  Quicker  even  than  Liz!" 

Kathie  hurried  on  with  her  task.  She  was  near- 
ing  the  end  of  it ;  only  one  more  can  to  fill  and  she 


Ii6      The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

would  be  out  of  reach  of  Crawford's  glib  tongue  and 
his  unwelcome  presence. 

Well  she  understood  the  subtle  power  this  man 
possessed  with  womankind,  and,  despite  his  imper- 
tinences, she  found  herself  admiring  his  peculiar 
attractive  appearance  and  his  impelling  tone  of  voice. 
But  she  hated  and  almost  feared  the  searching  look 
of  his  mastering  eyes. 

"By  gosh!"  he  exclaimed  suddenly  and  passion- 
ately, "I  would  throw  Liz  over  this  minute  if  I 
thought  I  could  have  you  for  a  steady.  The  way 
you  have;  your  hair  and  your  black  eyes;  your  tempt- 
ing lips  and  the  silky  white  of  your  skin — they  would 
provoke  the  devil  that  sleeps  in  the  saintliest  saint. 
To  look  into  your  face,  you  little  devil,  one  would 
think  it  was  farthest  away  from  your  thoughts  to 
dress  to  attract  men  like  me,  but,  Good  Lord!  you 
could  do  it  with  a  petticoat  and  shawl.  It's  a  way 
some  of  you  women  have.  Your  skirt  is  just  the 
right  height  to  show  the  neatness  of  your  ankles — 
your  sleeves  are  rolled  up  just  far  enough  to  expose 
the  dimples  on  your  elbows — and  your  hair  is  plaited 
and  twisted  as  if  it  wanted  to  twine  around  a  man's 
soul.  Your  collar  turns  down  to  where  the  rise  of 
your  throat  shines  the  whitest, — your  eyes  say  'Keep 
away,'  and  your  lips  say  'Come  on.'  Which  am 
I  to  believe?  Do  you  wonder  that  a  man  wants  to 
stay  inside  this  place  beside  you  and  to  look  at  you 
and  keep  right  on  looking  at  you  until  he  gets 


Storm  Fiends  117 

pretty  near  drunk?  You're  not  a  woman,  damn  it, — 
you're  a  witch, — a  damned,  elusive,  tantalising,  glor- 
ious little  witch." 

Kathie  did  not  speak.  Her  throat  was  parched 
with  an  unknown  terror.  Even  if  words  could  have 
come  she  knew  they  would  have  been  impotent,  use- 
less, with  such  a  man  as  Crawford. 

Her  one  desire  was  to  get  away.  She  bent  down 
and  lifted  the  last  of  the  heavy,  lead-bottomed  cans, 
and  raised  it  slowly  above  her  with  both  hands.  Her 
figure  was  tense,  and  the  graceful  poise  of  her  sup- 
ple body  displayed  its  curving  lines.  Her  swelling 
bosom,  her  shapely  limbs  and  her  bewitching  neat- 
ness roused  the  slumbering  furies  in  Crawford.  With 
the  quiet,  slippery  movement  of  a  snake  he  slid  from 
the  bench  and  tip-toed  behind  her  as  she  stretched 
to  place  the  can  of  milk  securely  on  the  shelf.  Her 
thoughts  were  all  of  Crawford,  but  she  was  all  un- 
conscious of  his  proximity. 

"Come  on — a  kiss  if  it  kills  me,"  he  shouted  sud- 
denly, catching  her  round  the  waist. 

With  a  startled  exclamation,  Kathie  lost  her  hold 
of  the  can  which  was  resting  on  the  edge  of  the  shelf. 
In  the  flash  of  a  moment  it  toppled  over,  crashing, 
with  a  sickening  sound,  on  to  Crawford's  head. 
Without  even  a  moan,  he  crumpled  to  the  floor  and 
lay  at  Kathie's  feet  still  and  senseless,  with  a  little 
stream  of  blood  trickling  slowly  over  his  brow. 

Kathie  staggered  back  against  the  bench,  looking 


n8      The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

down  at  the  man,  fascinated  and  horror-stricken. 
She  knelt  down  beside  him  and  tried  to  rouse  him, 
and  failing,  she  endeavoured  to  wipe  away  the  blood 
from  his  wound.  In  the  process,  her  hands  became 
red  and  moist,  and  clammy.  A  shudder  passed 
through  her,  leaving  a  feeling  of  faintness  in  its 
train. 

She  was  still  bending  over  Crawford  when  the 
door  opened  softly  and  Lizbeth,  snug  in  furs  and 
storm-proof  garments,  stood  surveying  the  scene. 

She  threw  her  robes  aside  and  with  a  cry  ran  for- 
ward. 

"What  are  you  doing?  What  have  you  done? 
Oh,  my  God!— it's  Bob— it's  my  Bob  I" 

With  all  the  frenzy  of  a  grief-stricken  woman,  she 
caught  Kathie  by  the  shoulder  and  threw  her  across 
the  place  like  a  toy.  Tearing  off  her  gloves,  she  bent 
over  her  lover.  She  held  him  to  her  breast.  She 
smoothed  his  matted  hair,  she  laid  her  cheek  against 
his,  she  crooned  his  name  lovingly  and  tenderly. 
But  Crawford's  eyes  remained  closed  and  he  showed 
no  signs  of  returning  consciousness. 

"You  did  this — you  she-cat,"  shouted  Lizbeth, 
jumping  up  suddenly  and  confronting  Kathie.  "See  I 
— his  blood  is  wet  on  your  hands,  fear  is  showing  in 
your  face.  You — with  your  damned  daintiness  and 
your  double-scheming.  Tell  me  why  you  did  it?" 

She  swayed  unsteadily.  Her  voice  broke  and  her 
demeanour  changed. 


Storm  Fiends  119 

"Why  did  you  do  it?"  she  cried  in  piteous  tones. 
"Couldn't  you  let  him  be?  He  didn't  need  your 
looks  and  smiles.  Even  if  you  are  pretty — you 
didn't  want  him.  But  I  loved  him.  I  loved  him — 
I  tell  you.  Wasn't  Simpson  enough  for  you?  Oh, 
— I  hate  you,"  she  railed  on,  stamping  her  foot  in 

her  anger  and  grief.  "I  could — I  could He  was 

mine  before  you  came  here.  You  knew  he  was  mine 
— you  knew  he  was  mine." 

Kathie  stood  back  dazed  and  stupid.  She  heard 
her  cousin's  voice  afar  off  and  she  felt  as  if  she 
were  passing  through  some  evil  dream. 

"What  the  devil  are  you  two  quarrelling  over?" 
cried  a  gruff  voice;  and  it  brought  both  girls  back 
to  their  normal  senses. 

Colin  Jackson  lunged  through  the  doorway  in  a 
cloud  of  snow. 

"Isn't  it  enough  to  have  a  storm  outside,  without 
creating  another  inside?  Hello!  What's  this?" 

He  looked  at  the  two  women  questioningly.  Then 
he  bent  down.  "Why — it's  Crawford.  What  the 
devil  was  he  doing  here?  Good  Lord  I — he's  in  a 
bad  way  too.  What  does  it  mean?  Who  did  this?" 
he  asked,  looking  up  sharply. 

"She  did,"  replied  Lizbeth,  pointing  with  her  fin- 
ger at  Kathie. 

Colin  Jackson  glared  at  his  niece,  and  without  a 
word  he  placed  his  hand  on  Crawford's  wrist.  He 


120      The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

threw  it  from  him  and  put  his  ear  to  the  prostrate 
man's  heart. 

"My  God!"  he  exclaimed  in  a  trembling  voice, 
"the  man's  dead." 

"Oh,  no !  no !  no  1"  cried  Kathie  hysterically,  "not 
that,  uncle;  he  can't  be.  He  was  speaking  to  me  a 
moment  ago.  He  isn't  dead.  Oh,  uncle,  uncle, 
please  say  he  isn't  dead."  She  wrung  her  hands 
distractedly. 

"I  tell  you,  he  is  dead,"  repeated  Jackson  with 
decision. 

Kathie,  poor  distraught  Kathie,  could  bear  no 
more.  Pressing  her  fingers  against  her  ears,  she  ran 
to  the  door,  and  sped  out  into  the  storm,  uttering 
a  wild,  despairing  cry. 

"Lizbeth,  pour  some  cold  milk  on  that  cloth 
there,"  commanded  her  father  in  a  businesslike  way, 
"and  hold  the  cloth  against  his  temples.  If  I  know 
Bob  Crawford,  I  have  something  here  that'll  bring 
him  round,  if  a  spark  of  life  remains  in  him.  This 
is  a  bad  business  though.  The  whole  countryside 
will  be  scandalised." 

He  pulled  a  flask  from  his  back  pocket,  withdrew 
the  cork  with  his  teeth  and  poured  some  of  the  con- 
tents of  the  bottle  down  Crawford's  throat. 

With  a  heavy  sigh  the  injured  man  opened  his 
eyes  and  looked  round  him  stupefied.  Lizbeth  and 
her  father  raised  him  to  a  sitting  posture. 


Storm  Fiends  121 

"Yep !"  he  murmured  thickly,  "something  fell  and 
I —  But  where  is  she?"  he  broke  in  anxiously. 

"Oh!  that's  all  right,  Bob,"  soothed  Lizbeth. 
"She's  gone — she  won't  trouble  you  any  more." 

Crawford  struggled  to  his  feet,  his  body  swaying 
unsteadily  as  he  clutched  at  the  woodwork  for  sup- 
port. 

"No ! — she  won't  trouble  me,"  he  said  with  a  sick- 
ly smile.  "She's  too  darned  good  for  that.  Say!" 
he  continued,  eyeing  them  suspiciously,  "you  ain't 
blaming  her  for  this,  you  two,  are  you?  Because 
she  didn't  do  it — see!  She  was  hoisting  that  can 
up  and  I —  Oh,  hell! — never  mind  what  I  did. 
But  anyway, — she  let  it  go  and  it  came  down  and 
struck  me.  I  got  what  was  coming  to  me  all  right, 
so  don't  be  putting  any  blame  on  to  her, — that's 
all." 


CHAPTER  EIGHT 
The  Victim 

THE  wind  was  still  high  and  biting,  the  moon 
was  bursting  through  the  clouds  and  only  a 
belated  snowflake,  crisp  and  scintillating,  was  fall- 
ing here  and  there,  as  Captain  Gray  got  off  the  main 
road  and  trudged  up  the  hill  on  his  way  home  from 
a  neighbourly  call  on  Doctor  Orr,  the  kindly  though 
busy  old  bachelor  who  lived  in  his  little  bungalow  on 
the  outskirts  of  Vernock. 

A  long-haired,  sharp-nosed  collie  trotted  at  his 
heel,  with  a  grudge  in  her  canine  substitute  for  a 
soul  against  wintry  weather  in  general  and  powdery, 
unpacked  snow  in  particular. 

The  Captain  did  not  seem  to  mind  the  elements 
so  much,  and  his  weather-beaten  face  betrayed  an 
usage  to  the  forces  of  nature  in  all  her  wildest  va- 
garies. Nevertheless,  he  preferred  the  warmth  of 
his  own  fireside  to  the  sharp  stinging  air  which  had 
already  begun  to  put  a  hard  crust  on  the  broad  ex- 
panses of  white  which  spread  before  him  in  all  di- 
rections. 

"Come  on,  Flora,"  he  said  to  the  dog.  "Let's 
jump  the  fence  and  take  the  clearing  through  the 

122 


The  Victim  123 

wood.  It  is  harder  going,  but  it  is  only  half  the  dis- 
tance and  it  will  bring  us  home  in  far  less  time.  It 
isn't  a  night  for  man  or  beast  to  be  out  in,  and  your 
mistress  will  be  getting  as  anxious  as  a  tabby-cat 
with  a  lost  kitten.  We  should  not  have  left  her,  you 
know,  Flora  lass,  but  you  can  bear  witness — Doctor 
Orr  was  waiting  for  us  and  had  his  cribbage-board 
set  out  on  the  table,  ready  to  begin.  It  would  have 
been  a  sore  disappointment  for  the  Doctor  if  we 
hadn't  turned  up.  Wouldn't  it  now,  Flora?" 

The  dog  wagged  her  tail,  hung  out  her  tongue  and 
gasped,  smiling  assent  with  her  eyes  and  with  the 
corners  of  her  mouth.  Then  she  took  the  fence 
with  a  bound,  snapping  at  the  snow  in  annoyance  as 
she  rolled  over  and  over  in  the  soft  drift  beyond. 

"It  is  pretty  deep,  Flora,  but  we'll  just  make  the 
best  of  it,"  said  the  Captain,  struggling  along,  up 
to  the  legging  tops  at  every  stride. 

They  went  up  over  the  hill  behind  Jackson's 
ranch,  then  through  the  clearing  between  the  closely- 
set  firs,  and  down  the  other  side.  The  dog  ran  on 
ahead,  occasionally  lost  to  view  altogether  in  the  soft 
snow  as  she  progressed  along  by  leaps  and  bounds. 

Suddenly  she  stood  still  and  listened  with  her 
head  tilted  toward  the  ground.  Then  she  barked 
sharply  once  or  twice. 

Her  master  came  up  alongside  and  walked  round 
her. 

"Come  on,  lass,  come  oal    We've  no  time  for 


124      The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

gopher  chasing  or  any  of  that  kind  of  nonsense  to- 
night," he  remarked.  "They  are  all  snug  at  home 
— wise  like — where  we  should  be  ourselves.  Come 
on  here  I" 

And  he  started  off  again. 

But  the  dog  remained  behind.  And  as  the  Cap- 
tain was  disappearing  in  the  distance,  she  whined 
piteously,  like  a  lonely  wolf  in  a  winter  famine. 

"What  has  got  into  that  dog,  anyway?"  remarked 
the  Captain  impatiently.  "I  suppose  to  please  her 
I  shall  have  to  go  back  and  unearth  an  old  pail,  or 
a  dead  chicken,  or  something  equally  as  foolish." 

He  trudged  slowly  back.  Flora  in  her  excitement 
commenced  to  throw  up  the  snow  with  her  feet.  Cap- 
tain Gray  prodded  around  with  his  walking  cane,  and 
just  as  he  was  giving  up,  the  end  of  the  cane  came 
in  contact  with  something  unyielding  but  soft.  He 
had  no  idea  what  it  could  be,  but  his  curiosity  was 
sufficiently  aroused  by  this  and  by  the  behaviour  of 
his  sagacious  collie  that  he  was  spurred  to  further 
investigation. 

He  cleared  away  the  snow  with  his  hands  and 
feet,  and  soon  was  on  his  knees,  working  furiously. 

With  startling  suddenness  his  fingers  brushed 
aside  a  piece  of  clothing.  It  was  part  of  a  woman's 
skirt.  In  a  moment  more,  two  well-shod  feet  ap- 
peared. Working  like  one  possessed,  he  quickly  un- 
covered the  entire  body. 

"Why! — Flora, — it's  a  woman,"  he  cried,  " — and 


The  Victim  125 

all  so  cold  and  stiff.  She's  young: — just  a  lassie. 
Poor  thing — caught  in  the  storm  somehow,  like 
many  another  I  have  seen." 

He  threw  off  his  coat  and  wrapped  it  round  the 
head  and  shoulders  of  the  unconscious  girl. 

"Run  home,  Flora.  Run  and  warn  them,"  he 
cried.  "I'll  be  at  your  tail." 

He  lifted  the  girl  up  in  his  strong  and  willing 
arms  and  pushed  his  way  after  the  dog  through  the 
deep  drift,  with  an  energy  equal  to  his  brightest 
subaltern  days. 

The  lights  of  Broadacres  soon  showed  in  the  dis- 
tance. In  a  few  moments  more  he  broke  in  upon 
his  wife's  reveries  as  she  sat  on  a  couch  before  a 
blazing  fire. 

Mrs.  Gray  rose  quickly  to  meet  her  husband.  She 
raised  her  hands  in  alarm  as  her  eyes  fell  on  the  bur- 
den he  bore. 

"Oh,  Allan,  Allan, — what  is  wrong?"  she  cried. 
"And  it's  a  lassie,  too!" 

"Yes,  Margery  dear!  Hurry  with  something 
warm.  Flora  found  her  buried  in  the  snow  on  the 
trail  in  the  wood." 

Gently  he  laid  the  senseless  form  on  the  couch  and 
unwrapped  his  coat  from  the  head  and  shoulders. 
Mrs.  Gray  dispatched  her  terrified-looking  Indian 
maid  for  warm  drink  and  warm  blankets,  while  she, 
herself,  chafed  the  limp  hands  and  arms. 


126      The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

"She's  a  bonny  lass,  Margery,"  said  the  Captain 
looking  down  admiringly. 

"Yes,  Allan, — bonny  as  she  can  be.  Look  at  her 
hair;  look  at  her  face;  there's  breeding  there  that 
belies  her  dress.  I  wonder  who  she  is  and  what  she 
was  doing  out  in  a  night  like  this.  It  seems  queer — 
unless,  maybe,  she  fell  and  hurt  herself." 

Mrs.  Gray  turned  to  her  husband  in  alarm,  as  he 
staggered  back  and  supported  himself  by  the  mantel- 
shelf. "What  ails  you,  man?  Am  I  to  have  two 
invalids  on  my  hands  instead  of  one?" 

"I — I  hardly  know,  Margery.  There's  some- 
thing— I  don't  know  what  and  I  can't  explain  it — 
but  it  makes  me  feel  as  if  I  knew  that  poor,  helpless 
lass.  Yet,  to  my  knowledge,  I  have  never  seen  her 
before.  It's  an  uncanny  kind  of  sensation.  I  dare- 
say it  is  just  the  shock  of  finding  her  so  suddenly  in 
the  wood.  I  am  not  so  strong  as  I  once  was,  Mar- 
gery,— I'll  be  all  right  in  a  minute  or  so. 

"The  lass  is  alive  though,  Margery?  You  don't 
think  it  is  anything  very  serious  with  her?"  he  in- 
quired  anxiously. 

"Alive ! — of  course  she's  alive.  She'll  live  to 
laugh  at  an  old  soldier  like  you  for  his  folly.  She's 
coming  round  now — and  here's  Zella  with  the  blan- 
kets." 

The  Indian  girl  came  forward  and  looked  curious- 
ly at  the  white  girl  on  the  couch.  She  turned  almost 
pale  under  her  tan  and  stepped  back  a  bit,  nervously. 


The  Victim  127 

"Goodness  Gracious  I"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Gray, 
"have  you  all  gone  silly  at  the  look  of  a  poor,  storm- 
stressed  young  woman?  Zella,  have  you  ever  seen 
her  before?  Do  you  know  who  she  is?" 

"Ya!  mam, — I  see  her  before,  ya!"  replied  the 
maid.  "I  see  her  long  time,  long  way.  She  Missy 
Jackson.  She  work  down  Jackson  ranch.  She  heap 
good  work.  Crazy,  me  think!  She  no  speak  much — 
just  little  bit,  sometime.  No  same  other  white  girl." 

"What  do  you  mean,  Zella?"  asked  her  mistress, 
still  chafing  the  semi-conscious  girl's  hands  and  push- 
ing the  hair  back  from  her  forehead.  "She  looks  a 
good  girl." 

"Ya,  mam  I  Nobody  speak  to  her.  She  no  spe?ik 
anybody  much.  Indian  no  like  ver'  much.  She  go 
into  wood,  play  music,  heap  magic.  What  you  call 
devil,  he  come  dance — see!  She  make  me  plenty 
scare.  She  what  you  call,  witch,  mam. 

"Maybe»you  wrap  her  up,  give  her  hot  drink  you'- 
self.  No  me  do  it." 

"Zella,  you  talk  lots  of  rubbish,"  reprimanded 
Mrs.  Gray.  "I  am  surprised  a  sensible  girl  like  you 
believes  in  devils  and  witches. 

"Don't  you  know  this  early  part  twentieth  century 
— not  the  middle  ages?  Witch  indeed! — just  a 
poor,  helpless  bairn. 

"Zella!" 

"Ya,  ya,  mam!" 

"Take  these  blankets  into  the  spare  bedroom — 


128      The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

and  the  tray  as  well.  Allan ! — lift  up  the  lass  and 
bring  her  in  here.  Then  you  can  send  Tom  Semple 
for  Doctor  Orr.  Tell  him  to  leave  word  at  Jack- 
son's on  his  way  back.  After  that,  just  sit  down 
quietly  and  recover  your  senses." 

With  the  gentleness  of  a  mother,  the  old  soldier 
raised  the  limp  form  of  Kathie  and  carried  her  into 
the  adjoining  room. 

"You're  quite  sure  she  is  all  right,  Margery 
dear?"  he  inquired  again. 

"She'll  be  all  right  once  the  Doctor  gets  here," 
his  wife  replied  pointedly.  She  closed  the  bedroom 
door  on  his  anxiety,  leaving  him  to  dispatch  his  fore- 
man for  the  Doctor. 

When  he  was  satisfied  that  his  man  was  well  on 
the  way,  Captain  Gray  sat  down  by  the  fire  and 
mused  for  a  while.  He  seemed  to  feel  himself  go- 
ing through  all  the  tortures  of  being  buried  alive 
and  frozen  to  death,  as  he  thought  of  the  peril  of 
the  girl  he  had  rescued. 

How  strangely  the  sight  of  her  had  acted  on  him 
and  how  swiftly  a  thousand  doors  in  his  memory 
had  opened  and  closed  again,  giving  him  a  fleeting 
glimpse  of  something  within;  but  leaving  him  on  a 
sea  of  conjecture  as  to  what  that  something  was! 
He,  who  had  spent  two-thirds  of  his  life  in  foreign 
lands  and  always  in  times  of  surprises  and  excite- 
ment! He  smiled  at  the  thought  of  his  foolishness, 
for  in  all  the  wide  world  he  was  without  a  living 


The  Victim  129 

link  of  any  kind  that  he  knew  of  likely  to  awaken 
such  fancies. 

He  rose  and  began  to  pace  the  floor  in  impatience. 
He  went  to  the  bedroom  door  and  listened,  but  as  he 
seemed  to  obtain  little  relief  from  this,  he  raised  his 
hand  to'  knock.  Eventually,  he  thought  better  of 
it,  and  started  to  wear  out  the  carpet  again. 

His  courage  grew  with  his  anxiety.  This  time 
he  knocked  gently,  but  with  no  uncertainty. 

The  maid  opened  the  door. 

"How  is  she  now,  Zella?"  he  asked,  almost  def- 
erentially. 

"Please, — you  wait.  I  ask  Missy  Gray,  if  you  be 
told,"  she  replied,  still  in  a  state  of  nervousness. 

Mrs.  Gray  came  out  and  held  up  her  hands  in 
dismay. 

"My  dear  husband,  whatever  is  the  matter  with 
you?  The  girl  has  had  something  to  drink  and  is 
wrapped  up  snugly;  and  I  believe  she  will  be  all 
right  soon." 

"Good — good!"  ejaculated  the  Captain. 

"Now — go  and  sit  down  and  try  to  be  the  digni- 
fied, imperturbable,  cold-blooded  Captain  Gray  of 
the  Black  Watch." 

"So  long  as  you  say  she  is  all  right,  my  love — 
I'll  do  anything.  Yes! — I'll  even  sit  down.  But 
you  must  admit  it  is  very  trying  on  the  patience  to  be 
out  here  by  one's  self,  with  nothing  to  do,  when 
one  might  be  assisting." 


130      The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

"I  quite  agree  with  you,  Allan,  but  surely  you  do 
not  expect  me  to  enlist  you  in  the  service  as  a  hos- 
pital orderly.  You  are  taking  more  interest  in  this 
case  than  would  the  girl's  sweetheart  himself.  I 
sincerely  hope  you  haven't  switched  your  affections," 
she  added  severely. 

"Now,  Margery!    You  know  quite  well " 

"Yes,  yes  I  I  know  Allan,  that  you  never  did  love 
anybody,  or  anything,  half  so  well  as  you  love  me 
— not  even  your  nightcap.  There ! " 

She  kissed  him  affectionately.  "Now,  go  and  sit 
down  again,  and  when  you  get  tired  sitting,  walk 
about  and  have  a  little  exercise.  But,  for  the  sake 
of  somebody,  try  to  have  a  modicum  of  patience. 
And  don't  forget  to  send  the  Doctor  in  the  very  mo- 
ment he  gets  here." 

The  Captain  had  hardly  been  left  alone  again, 
when  Doctor  Orr  came  in. 

The  little  man,  rubbing  his  hands  together,  was 
all  geniality  and  energy. 

"What  do  you  mean,  sir,  by  hustling  a  respectable 
man  out  of  his  home  on  a  night  like  this?"  he  asked, 
addressing  the  Captain. 

"It  is  just  tit  for  tat,  Doctor.  You  hauled  me 
out  for  a  game  of  cribbage  and  a  glass  of  punch. 
But  I  don't  grudge  the  journey,  Doctor,  for  it  meant 
the  saving  of  a  poor  lassie's  life." 

"I  haven't  heard  anything  yet,  Captain.  What  is 
the  trouble?"  asked  the  Doctor,  growing  serious. 


The  Victim  131 

"On  my  way  home,  I  found  one  of  the  Jackson 
girls  covered  up  in  the  snow,  cold  and  frozen.  You 
had  better  hurry  in.  I  know  you  will  do  your  best, 
Doctor.  I  am  particularly  interested  in  the  case: — 
I  don't  know  why  exactly.  So,  everything  that  can 
be  done  for  her  must  be  done." 

"She's  a  young  lass,  isn't  she?"  asked  the  Doctor. 

The  Captain  nodded. 

"And — a — a  good-looker?" 

The  Captain  nodded  once  more. 

"Um  1 — I  thought  so,"  remarked  the  Doctor  with 
a  twinkle  in  his  eyes.  "It's  the  old  story:  'No  fool 
like  an  old  fool,'  eh!" 

He  turned  the  handle  of  the  door  and  entered 
the  sick  room. 

But  Captain  Gray  was  not  to  be  left  long  undis- 
turbed. The  Doctor  had  no  sooner  disappeared  than 
the  sound  of  a  gruff  voice  on  the  outside  broke  in 
on  his  reveries:  and  the  owner  of  the  voice  put  an 
end  to  any  further  solitary  meditation. 

"It's  a  wintry  night,  Captain  Gray,"  he  remarked. 

"It  is  indeed,  Mr.  Jackson." 

"I  understand  my  niece  met  with  an  accident  of 
some  kind  in  the  wood:  sprained  her  ankle  or  some- 
thing, and  got  caught  in  a  drift.  I'm  obliged  to  you 
for  the  help  you  gave  her.  I've  brought  the  cutter 
round  to  drive  her  home ;  although  a  night  like  this  is 
mighty  hard  on  man  or  beast.  Here's  some  extra 


132      The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

clothes  for  her.  Tell  her  to  throw  them  round  her 
and  hurry;  for  I'm  anxious  to  get  back." 

The  Captain  tugged  his  mustache  the  while  and 
looked  curiously  at  the  sour-visaged  rancher  who 
stood,  with  spread  legs,  before  him. 

"I'm  afraid,  my  friend,  you  hardly  realise  the  ex- 
tent of  the  injury  to  your  niece.  It  would  hardly  be 
wise  even  to  think  of  moving  her  to-night." 

"Tuts — rubbish!"  replied  Jackson  testily.  "She's 
coming  home,  where  she  should  be.  She's  none  of 
your  milk-and-bread  babies; — she's  a  Jackson. 

"Tell  her  I'm  here :— that'll  be  sufficient." 

"Do  you  know  that  the  girl  is  nearly  dead?" 
asked  Captain  Gray  with  rising  anger.  "Are  you 
aware  she  was  buried  under  the  snow  in  the  wood 
— God  only  knows  how  long — and  was  frozen  and 
unconscious  when  found?  Do  you  know  what  it 
would  mean  to  move  any  sick  person  on  a  night  like 
this?" 

"I  didn't  come  here  to  be  curtain-lectured  or  bull- 
dozed," replied  rancher  Jackson.  "I  came  to  take 
my  niece  home,  and,  by  the  Lord !  I'll  do  it  in  spite 
of  the  contrary  opinions  of  you  and  all  the  malaria- 
saturated  Captains  in  the  English  Army  or  out  of 
it." 

Allan  Gray  may  have  been  easy-going  with 
women-folks,  but  when  dealing  with  men  of  the  kid- 
ney of  Colin  Jackson,  he  became  a  different  type; 


The  Victim  133 

and  his  stern,  unbending,  military  dignity  proved  not 
a  little  disconcerting  to  his  visitor. 

"You  will  please  bear  in  mind,  neighbour,  that 
you  are  in  my  house — where  my  word  goes.  I  am 
responsible  meantime  for  the  safety  of  your  niece 
and  I  will  not  allow  her  to  suffer  for  the  sake  of  a 
foolish  whim  or  a  little  personal  feeling.  Assuredly, 
she  shall  not  go  out  of  here  to-night." 

"Stand  aside,  sir,"  commanded  Colin  Jackson 
furiously.  "If  you  won't  bring  her  out — I'll  fetch 
her  myself." 

"Get  back!"  cried  the  Captain.  "If  they  will  not 
allow  me  in  there,  I  certainly  shall  not  allow  you. 
Get  back— or  I'll " 

"Easy — easyl  What's  all  this  to-do?"  said  Doc* 
tor  Orr  in  a  conciliatory  tone,  coming  out  of  the 
bedroom  opportunely. 

The  fact  was  he  had  had  his  hand  on  the  door- 
knob for  the  past  five  minutes  and  had  been  enjoying 
the  altercation  immensely. 

"Allan,  you  look  positively  furious.  Colin,  be- 
fore you  work  yourself  up  any  more  go  home  and 
put  on  a  larger  collar.  If  you  don't,  I'll  have  to 
treat  you  for  apoplexy. 

"Now — look  here,  you  two,  that  poor  maid  in 
there  is  in  a  serious  plight.  She  is  conscious  now, 
and  there  is  practically  no  danger  to  her  from  the 
exposure ; — but  there  is  something  on  her  mind  that 
she  is  fretting  over.  I  am  the  more  certain  of  this, 


134      The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

because  she  has  met  with  no  physical  accident  that 
could  cause  her  to  fall  down  in  the  snow.  There  are 
no  cuts,  no  knocks,  no  sprains,  no  broken  bones; — 
but, — there  are  stains,  like  blood  stains,  on  her 
hands.  Now,  if  this  mental  condition  does  not  get 
removed  soon,  there  will  be  a  brain-fever  to  contend 
with.  She  has  tried  to  speak  several  times,  but  can- 
not. She  seems  to  have  lost  the  power.  I  have 
heard  of  such  cases  before.  And  it  takes  a  severe 
shock,  indeed,  to  strike  a  person  dumb,  more  espe- 
cially if  the  person  be  of  the  feminine  gender. 

"This  is  a  desperately  serious  business,  all  the 
same.  She  may  never  speak  again." 

"My  God,  Doctor, — do  you  mean  this?"  asked 
the  Captain  in  grief-stricken  tones. 

"Most  assuredly  I  do,  Allan ; — although  I  am  hop- 
ing for  a  change  soon." 

"Then  she  cannot  come  home  to-night?"  queried 
her  uncle. 

"No,  Colin — nor  to-morrow  night,  nor  the  next 
night,"  replied  the  Doctor. 

Captain  Gray  gesticulated. 

" — Nor  even  next  week!  It  will  be  many  a  day 
before  she  can  be  moved  from  here,"  continued  the 
Doctor  imperiously. 

"She  might  speak  if  she  saw  me,"  said  Jackson, 
moving  again  in  the  direction  of  the  door.  "I  guess 
there  will  be  no  objection  to  me  seeing  her?" 

"She  must  not  be  disturbed  to-night  by  any  one. 


The  Victim  135 

You  shall  see  her  after  I  have  seen  you,  Colin,"  was 
the  little  Doctor's  suggestive  rejoinder. 

"You  have  to  go  my  way  for  a  bit  anyway;  and, 
as  the  cutter  of  every  rancher  in  the  Valley  is  at 
the  service  of  Doctor  Orr,  you  shall  have  the  plea- 
sure of  driving  me  right  home.  We  can  have  a  nice, 
quiet,  little,  friendly  chat  on  the  way." 

There  was  nothing  left  for  Colin  Jackson  to  do 
but  to  obey,  which  he  did  with  bad  grace. 

"Good  night,  Allan,"  cried  the  genial  Doctor. 
"Take  care  of  the  lass  and  send  for  me  if  anything 
goes  wrong.  In  any  case,  I'll  be  back  early  in  the 
morning." 

Through  all  the  long  night  Kathie  tossed  from 
side  to  side  in  a  maddening  fever  of  unrest.  No 
sound  escaped  her  parched  lips;  not  even  a  moan 
formed  in  her  throat.  She  seemed,  however,  quite 
conscious  of  her  surroundings,  and  her  grateful 
eyes,  bright  with  fever,  followed  the  tender,  loving 
little  woman  who  smoothed  her  pillow  and  stilled 
the  throbbing  at  her  temples  with  a  soothing  hand, 
moving  about  patiently  and  noiselessly,  hour  after 
hour,  bestowing  her  sympathy  and  whispering  words 
of  cheer  when  the  tension  seemed  straining  to  the 
unendurable. 

Daybreak  brought  a  dazzling  sunshine  upon  a  daz- 
zling sea  of  crystalline  white,  but  it  brought  no  re- 
lief to  the  silent,  restless  sufferer. 


136      The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

Doctor  Orr  was  in  attendance  before  the  robins 
were  astir,  but  in  response  to  Mrs.  Gray's  tearful 
inquiry  he  could  only  shake  his  head  sadly. 

"She  cannot  stand  the  strain  twelve  hours  longer. 
And  she  shall  not  be  allowed  to  do  so  if  I  have  to 
drag  the  information  from  the  very  vitals  of  that 
cantankerous,  old  skinflint,  Jackson,"  he  said,  with 
rising  anger.  "He  told  me  nothing  last  night.  He 
knows  the  girl  is  likely  to  die,  yet  he  refuses  to  say 
a  word  of  what  happened  in  the  dairy  before  she  ran 
out  into  the  storm.  Whether  he  is  shielding  her  or 
someone  else,  I  cannot  say,  but  his  sympathy,  if  he 
has  any  at  all,  does  not  seem  to  be  with  her.  How- 
ever, I  must — I  shall  have  the  truth  before  this  day 
is  gone — or  my  name  isn't  Orr." 

At  noon  that  day,  the  maid,  Zella,  ran  in  with  a 
note. 

"Please,  mam,"  she  said,  "big  chief  Crawford — 
he  bring  this.  He  say,  from  Doctor  Orr  and  it  very 
special.  He  wait  now  outside." 

"Bring  him  in,  Zella,"  replied  Mrs.  Gray,  tearing 
open  the  envelope. 

"Dear  Mrs.  Gray,"  the  note  ran, 

"I  have  reached  the  truth  at  last.  Crawford  was 
lying  in  wait  for  me,  to  inquire  how  my  patient  was. 
I  asked  him  what  he  knew  about  the  matter,  and 
he  told  me  all.  It  seems  he  had  gone  into  the  dairy 
and  had  found  Miss  Jackson  alone.  He  tried  to  kiss 


The  Victim  137 

her.  There  was  a  struggle,  in  which  he  came  off 
second  best.  A  heavy  can  fell  from  a  shelf  on  to 
his  head.  He  dropped  unconscious  and  she  thought 
she  had  killed  him.  She  still  thinks  so. 

"Crawford  is  contrite.  He  will  gladly  do  any- 
thing he  can  to  repair  the  wrong  he  has  done. 

"Now,  it  is  for  you  to  tell  your  patient  quietly  that 
Crawford  is  alive  and  well.  You  can  do  it  better 
than  I.  If  necessary,  take  Crawford  in  to  her  so 
that  she  may  be  thoroughly  convinced. 

"The  girl's  reason  is  at  stake,  so  do  your  best. 

"I  shall  run  in  early  in  the  afternoon. 

"William  Orr." 

Mrs.  Gray  braced  herself  for  the  ordeal  and  en- 
tered the  sick  room.  The  sight  of  the  poor,  suffer- 
ing girl,  tossing  in  a  mental  unrest  like  one  of 
Dante's  tortured  souls,  went  to  her  heart  and 
opened  up  the  way  for  her.  She  sat  down  beside 
Kathie  and  spoke  softly  and  gently. 

"My  dear,  someone  has  called  to  see  you  and  to 
ask  your  forgiveness.  Whatever  made  you  think 
that  a  little  knock  on  the  head  would  kill  a  big, 
strong  man  like  Crawford?" 

At  the  mention  of  Crawford's  name  Kathie's  eyes 
lit  up  with  an  uncertain  fear. 

"Poor  girl,"  continued  the  kindly  old  lady,  "how 
foolish  to  worry  so  much  over  so  little  1  Why  I — he 


138      The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

was  all  right  again  in  a  few  moments  after  you  ran 
'out  into  the  snow." 

Although  Kathie  understood  what  was  being  said 
to  her,  she  only  shook  her  head  doubtfully. 

"If  I  show  Crawford  to  you — healthy  and  well — 
will  you  promise  to  go  to  sleep?" 

Kathie  smiled  faintly  and  nodded  assent. 

Mrs.  Gray  went  to  the  door  and  beckoned  the  con- 
stable. 

He  came  in  with  his  head  down.  Penitent  tears 
welled  in  his  eyes  as  he  gazed  on  Kathie's  pale  face. 
He  stood  helplessly  at  the  bedside,  twisting  his  hat  in 
his  hands. 

"I'm  mighty  sorry,  miss,  for  what  I  did,"  he  said 
huskily.  "You  didn't  hurt  me — you  really  didn't.  I 
ain't  hurt  so  easy.  I've  stood  twenty  times  that  much 
many  a  time.  Please  forgive  me,  miss,  and  I'll 
never  say  a  wrong  word  to  you  as  long  as  I  live." 

A  sigh  escaped  the  invalid.  She  nodded  her  head 
to  Crawford  in  token  of  forgiveness.  Her  eyes 
flickered  and  closed,  opened,  flickered,  and  closed 
again;  and  she  dropped  into  a  deep,  health-giving, 
life-sustaining  sleep. 

When  Doctor  Orr  arrived  the  house  was  wrapped 
in  silence. 

"You  need  not  tell  me  the  result,"  he  remarked  to 
Mrs.  Gray.  "I  can  see  it  in  your  eyes.  Did  she 
speak?" 

"She  did  not,"  answered  Mrs.  Gray.  "That  is  the 


The  Victim  139 

one  sad  feature.  Her  lips  moved  and  she  tried  hard, 
but  no  sound  came — not  so  much  as  a  whisper." 

The  Doctor's  face  fell  in  disappointment  and  he 
shook  his  head. 

"It  was  the  only  chance,"  he  answered  with  a  sigh. 
"I  am  afraid  now  she  will  never  speak  again.  Still, 
we  must  be  thankful  that  her  reason  is  saved.  It 
was  touch  and  go." 


CHAPTER  NINE 
Witchery 

KATHIE'S  convalescence  was  quick  as  it  was 
surprising.  In  a  few  days  she  was  up  and 
going  about  the  house,  to  the  delight  of  the  Captain 
and  his  wife,  whose  interest  in  their  enforced  guest 
grew  deeper  and  more  affectionate  with  every  hour 
she  remained  under  their  hospitable  roof.  Their 
love  went  out  to  this  happy,  though  sad-eyed  girl, 
and  they  sorrowed  in  the  loss  of  her  power  of  speech 
even  more  than  she  did,  for  she  bore  her  new  afflic- 
tion with  a  bright  smile  and  a  stout  heart,  conveying 
all  her  thoughts  and  fancies  through  the  agency  of 
paper  and  a  pencil,  and  suggestive  gestures. 

One  day,  on  a  prowl  of  discovery,  she  ventured 
timidly  into  the  Captain's  den.  It  was  her  first  visit 
there.  She  looked  round  the  quaint,  mannish  place 
with  inquisitive  interest.  The  Captain's  strong, 
ivory  paper-knives;  the  gruesome  Hindoo  gods  he 
used  for  paper-weights;  the  grotesquely  wrought, 
brass  inkstand;  the  cunningly  designed  pipe-rack;  the 
beautiful  inlaid,  Japanese  card-table — all  came  in 
for  their  measure  of  her  scrutiny  and  admiration. 

Here  and  there,  aimlessly  and  dreamily,  she 
140 


Witchery  141 

turned  in  the  little  room  until  something  hanging 
from  a  hook  in  the  wall  sent  her  blood  whirling  and 
chasing  from  her  toes  to  her  face  and  back  to  her 
toes  again,  in  a  tingling,  gleeful  swirl,  making  her 
forget  all  else  that  the  world  contained.  She  did 
not  even  hear  the  footsteps  of  Zella,  the  Indian  help, 
nor  did  she  observe  that  individual  peeping  into  the 
den,  watching  her  suspiciously  and  intently,  albeit 
fearfully — poised  and  ready  to  run  on  the  slightest 
alarm. 

It  was  an  old  violin  that  had  caught  Kathie's  eye 
and  had  so  absorbed  her  interest.  It  was  a  violin 
which  had  travelled  with  Captain  Gray  on  most  of 
his  journeyings.  Not  that  he  ever  fancied  he  could 
bring  dulcet  tones  from  its  shapely  body:  he  had 
given  up  that  idea  years  and  years  before.  But  he 
liked  to  scrape  and  twang  when  the  door  of  his  den 
was  closed  and  his  pipe  was  going  well,  when  all 
the  world,  including  his  wife,  was  shut  outside. 

With  trembling  fingers,  Kathie  took  it  down  from 
the  wall  and  gazed  upon  it  with  admiration. 

What  a  violin  it  was!  A  glance  was  enough  to 
her  practiced  eye  to  tell  her  that  she  had  never  be- 
fore had  the  opportunity  of  playing  upon  such  an 
instrument.  She  felt  almost  afraid  to  handle  it. 
But  the  temptation  was  too  strong  to  be  overcome 
by  any  little  trembling  scruples. 

She  turned  the  pegs  and  tightened  up  the  bow, 
then  she  floated  away  in  a  whirl  of  entrancing  music; 


142      The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

melody  tumbling  over  melody  in  the  mad  hilarity  of 
their  new  creation,  charging  the  very  air  with  vi- 
brant harmonies. 

In  the  adjoining  room,  Zella  stood  spellbound, 
wide  of  eye  and  open-mouthed,  held  by  the  thrill- 
ing and  universally  understandable  ecstasy;  but  all 
the  time  shaking  with  an  inexplicable  terror  and  un- 
able to  cry  out  and  move  away. 

Suddenly  the  music  ceased.  Kathie  pressed  the 
violin  to  her  cheek  with  a  radiating  smile  of  plea- 
sure. 

"Oh,  you  dearest,  sweetest  of  human  creations! 
What  a  violin  you  are  to  be  sure  I  How  I  love 
you!" 

The  sound  of  Kathie's  voice,  following  the  stop- 
page of  the  music,  broke  the  spell.  Zella  did  not 
wait  for  anything  more.  With  a  bound  and  an  in- 
articulate noise  in  her  throat  she  ran  out  into  the 
garden  and  into  the  conservatory  where  the  Cap- 
tain and  his  wife  were  examining  some  plants. 

"What  on  earth  is  wrong  with  you,  girl?"  cried 
Mrs.  Gray  in  alarm  at  the  terror-stricken  look  of 
Zella. 

"Oh,  Missy  Gray,"  she  moaned,  "she  do  it  again 
— she  do  it  again.  I  tell  you  she  witch.  You  no 
b'lieve.  You  b'lieve  me  now, — him  heap  true.  She 
play  Mister  Gray  music  box — she  play  dreadful. 
Dish  all  jump  up — little  god  up  mantelshelf  he  nod 
his  head  and  do  witch-dance. 


Witchery  143 

"She  no  good.  She  raise  what  white  man  call 
Hell  before  she  stop — see!  She  kiss  music-box  all 
same  kiss  man.  She  talk  music-box  all  same  other 
girl  talk  you,  talk  me." 

"Talk!"  put  in  the  Captain,  catching  Zella  and 
shaking  her  up  a  bit.  "Did  you  say  she  was  talk- 
ing?" 

"Ya,  ya,  Mister  Gray!  She  talk  music-box.  Me 
scared.  Me  go  away, — me  no  stay  along  her." 

"Look  here,  Zella — pull  yourself  together.  You 
talk  nonsense,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Gray.  "Come  along 
with  us  and  we  shall  see  for  ourselves  what  all  this 
silly  commotion  is  about." 

"Please,  mam — please,  I  just  stay  right  here — 
see !  I  no  much  good  help  inside." 

"All  right,"  said  her  mistress,  "stay  here — like 
the  foolish  girl  you  are." 

As  the  two  neared  the  house,  the  strangest,  soft- 
est, sweetest  melody  floated  around  them,  seeming 
to  issue  from  nowhere  and  to  penetrate  everywhere. 
They  went  quietly  inside  and  remained  in  the  room 
next  to  the  den,  where  they  could  hear  and  not  be 
seen,  as  Kathie  was  still  in  the  den  and  was  again 
playing  in  a  transport  of  enjoyment. 

The  Captain's  heart  beat  loudly. 

"Did  you  ever  hear  anything  so  thrilling;  so  wild, 
so  plaintive?"  he  whispered.  "It  isn't  music — it's 
witchery.  Zella  wasn't  very  far  wrong  after  all." 

"Hush!"  commanded  his  wife.  And  they  listened 


144      The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

in  silence  for  a  longer  time  than  they  ever  dreamed 
of. 

At  last  Kathie  stopped  and  came  running  lightly 
into  the  room  where  they  were.  Her  face  was  aglow 
with  enthusiasm. 

"Oh,  it's  just  glorious,"  she  cried.  "You  sweet 
old  violin — I  could  play  on  you  for  ever  and  ever." 

She  started  back  as  she  observed  her  two  friends; 
yet  she  did  not  appear  at  all  abashed. 

"Captain  Gray — you  are  not  angry  with  me?" 
she  asked.  "I  simply  could  not  keep  from  playing 
on  it.  What  a  violin  it  is,  to  be  sure!  What  a 
dear  old,  dear  old  violin!" 

They  looked  at  Kathie  in  bewilderment,  surprised 
to  hear  the  sound  of  a  voice  which  they  had  never 
heard  before  and  had  given  up  all  hope  of  ever  hear- 
ing. 

"Why! — you  are  crying.  Oh,  whatever  have  I 
done?  What  have  I  said?"  she  asked  innocently,  her 
voice  aquiver  with  distress. 

Mrs.  Gray  took  her  in  her  arms  and  kissed  her 
cheek,  leading  her  slowly  over  to  the  couch. 

"My  darling  girl,"  she  said,  "I  am  weeping  be- 
cause I  am  very  happy.  Can't  you  understand  what 
it  is?  Don't  you  know  the  great,  good  change  that 
has  come  over  you  ?  Don't  you  know  that  you  have 
been  dumb  since  your  accident  and  that  you  are 
speaking  again — just  as  if  your  dumbness  had  never 
been?" 


Witchery  145 

Kathie  laughed — a  tinkling  little  laugh. 

"So  I  am,"  she  replied,  "and  I  never  thought 
of  it,  I  was  so  taken  up  with  the  music.  But — • 
when  all  around  is  harmony,  how  could  I  possibly 
remain  dumb  and  in  discord?  I  just  had  to  tell  that 
violin  what  a  dear  old  thing  it  was. 

"Yet,"  she  mused  thoughtfully,  "I  am  glad  my 
voice  has  come  back.  I  am  glad  if  only  for  Alick's 
sake." 

The  words  slipped  out,  suddenly,  almost  uninten- 
tionally; more  in  soliloquy  than  in  conversation.  She 
stopped  short,  a  rosy  tint  flooding  her  cheeks. 

"Well  now! — and  who  may  Alick  be?"  asked 
Mrs.  Gray,  sitting  up  primly.  "Allan — I  do  be- 
lieve we  have  stumbled  across  something  at  last. 
This  young  lady  has  a  sweetheart." 

Kathie  blushed  and  kept  silent. 

"Now,  Margery,  my  dear,  we  must  not  pry  into 
a  young  lady's  secrets.  She  shall  tell  us  all  about 
it  some  day — maybe." 

"Oh,  I  am  not  ashamed  of  his  name,"  put  in 
Kathie.  "But  it  is  our  secret  yet.  Some  day — may- 
be— as  the  Captain  says — I'll  tell  you,  although  I 
cannot  just  now — not  yet." 

"In  your  own  good  time,"  said  the  Captain  kind- 
ly. "There  is  something  else  I  wish  to  ask  you, 
however.  Where  did  you  learn  to  play  the  violin 
as  you  do?  At  times  you  play  just  what  you  seem 
to  feel  and  just  as  your  fancy  leads  you.  I  knew 


146      The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

only  one  other  person  who  could  do  that.  It  brings 
back  strange,  uninvited,  half-forgotten  memories  to 
an  old  man.  Tell  me,  my  dear — who  was  it  who 
taught  you?" 

"I  can  hardly  tell  you  that,"  replied  Kathie 
thoughtfully,  gazing  at  the  crackling  logs  in  the  fire- 
place. "I  just  feel — and  play.  You  know,  a  real 
artist  in  his  own  particular  art,  ought  to  be  able 
to  translate  his  every  feeling  and  emotion  through 
his  art  so  clearly  and  plainly  that  even  one  who 
has  no  knowledge  of  art  cannot  fail  to  interpret  cor- 
rectly what  the  artist  has  endeavoured  to  express. 
If  he  falls  short  of  this,  he  has  not  mastered  his  art. 

"I  seem  to  have  grown  up  expressing  myself 
through  the  violin.  True,  my  father  showed  me  all 
he  knew.  He  was  only  a  strolling  player,  but  those 
who  heard  him  said  they  never  listened  to  such  music 
as  he  could  produce.  I  never  found  out  who  it  was 
who  taught  him.  His  past,  to  the  time  of  his  meet- 
ing my  mother,  seemed  to  us  to  be  a  room  with  the 
door  locked  and  the  blinds  drawn  down  over  the 
windows — and  we  never  tried  to  pry  inside. 

"Poor  father! — his  music  did  not  bring  him  much 
outside  of  happiness  and  oblivion  of  time.  But  we 
were  always  happy  then,  boisterously  happy  almost." 

"Well,  Kathie,"  put  in  Mrs.  Gray,  "we  must  not 
dwell  upon  sad  subjects  to-day,  for  we  are  all  so 
glad  to  hear  your  voice  among  us;  a  voice  which  we 


Witchery  147 

thought  had  been  stolen  away  from  you  for  all 
time." 

"But  I  am  not  sad,"  interjected  Kathie,  "far  from 
it.  I  am  very,  very  happy.  And  my  voice  has  had 
a  long  rest. 

"Captain  Gray  was  just  about  to  tell  us  of  the 
memories  my  playing  brought  back  to  him.  I  won- 
der now  what  those  memories  were?" 

"There  isn't  very  much  to  tell,  lass ;  only  the  story 
of  genius  misunderstood.  It  is  as  common  as  the 
milk-weed. 

"When  I  was  but  a  boy,  I  had  a  brother,  a  little 
brother,  who  could  play  like  you  do.  A  rum  little 
chap  he  was  too.  Music  was  born  in  him — from 
some  far  back  ancestor,  no  doubt.  It  seemed  to 
grow  with  him,  out  of  him  and  over  him;  a  terrible, 
over-mastering  passion  for  music — nothing  but 
music. 

"My  father  was  a  stern  Scot  of  the  old  stock. 
For  me  he  mapped  out  a  career  in  the  army.  He 
planned  my  brother  for  the  ministry.  When  my 
father  mapped  and  planned  anything,  that  settled 
the  matter  definitely  and  for  all  time  so  far  as  he 
was  concerned. 

"He  never  allowed  music  of  any  kind  in  our 
home.  He  said  it  was  the  destroyer  of  time  and 
the  slayer  of  ambition.  He  hated  the  very  sound 
of  the  'devil's  tuning  fork,'  as  he  styled  the  violin; 
and  he  maintained  in  no  uncertain  tones  that  no  son 


148      The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

of  his  should  ever  be  a  common,  three-penny  fiddler. 

"And  my  poor  little  brother  would  have  swapped 
his  immortal  soul  for  a  violin. 

"The  youngster  learned  the  rudiments  of  music 
from  an  old  Italian  who  lived  in  a  garret  in  a  back 
lane  of  the  little  town  near  to  which  we  lived.  And 
he  used  to  steal  away  there  at  all  hours,  striving  and 
struggling  to  express  his  genius  under  the  tuition  of 
this  kindly  old  foreigner,  who  grew  to  love  my 
brother  as  his  own  son. 

"Not  once  but  a  thousand  times  did  my  father 
issue  his  mandate  against  music,  and  a  thousand 
times  was  his  mandate  ignored. 

"When  the  time  came  for  my  brother  to  choose 
between  'the  call  of  the  devil  and  the  call  of  the 
Lord' — as  my  father  put  it — the  little  fellow  slipped 
away  with  his  violin  under  his  arm. — And — we — 
never — heard — of — him — again. 

"At  least,  not  while  he  lived; — and  that  was  only 
the  matter  of  some  five  or  six  years.  There  was  a 
shipwreck  on  the  Solway  Firth  and  my  brother's 
poor,  emaciated  body  was  discovered  on  a  lonely 
part  of  the  beach,  washed  up  by  the  sea.  His 
features  were  unrecognisable,  but  his  violin,  wrapped 
in  a  water-proof  bag,  was  buttoned  up  firmly  inside 
his  ragged  coat.  My  father  knew  the  violin — there 
was  no  mistaking  it.  It  was  given  my  brother  by 
that  old  Italian  master  as  he  lay  dying.  It  is  that 
very  violin  you  are  holding  now,  Kathie.  See  the 


Witchery  149 

peculiar  grain  it  has  on  the  back  of  it,  forming  the 
face  of  a  grimacing  man. 

"Well,  my  father  died  soon  afterwards,  mourn- 
ing his  harshness  when  it  was  all  too  late.  That  is 
a  way  the  world  has — we  are  sorry  afterwards,  when 
we  should  have  been  forbearing  before. 

"I  was  in  India,  a  young  officer,  at  the  time  of  my 
brother's  'death.  My  father  wrote  me,  sending  me 
the  violin ;  the  only  relic  left  of  him  who  might  have 
accomplished  great  things  had  he  but  been  under- 
stood." 

Kathie  put  her  hand  into  that  of  the  old  soldier. 

"So  few  people  seem  to  understand  the  soul  of 
the  artist,  whether  the  artist  be  a  musician,  a  paint- 
er, a  poet  or  an  inventor,"  she  said,  "how  highly 
the  fibres  of  his  heart  are  keyed,  how  sensitively  his 
nerves  are  strung,  how  the  lure  of  his  art,  with  its 
mysterious,  hypnotising  influences,  draws  him  away 
and  away  from  all  the  world  1  his  deep  hurt  at  the 
slightest  word  or  gesture — which  another  would 
brush  aside  laughingly — and,  above  all,  the  sacri- 
fices he  will  make  and  the  sufferings  he  will  endure 
for  that  relentless  art  which  lies,  ever  famishing, 
never  satisfied,  down  in  his  innermost  self!" 

"Yes,"  mused  Mrs.  Gray,  "and  we  have  always 
had  so  much  more  of  this  world's  goods  than  we 
really  required — for  we  had  his  share  as  well  as  our 
own — and  now  we  have  neither  kith  nor  kin  to  leave 
it  to  when  we  go;  while  he,  poor  lad,  was  an  outcast, 


150      The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

tramping  from  town  to  town,  trying  to  exchange  his 
music  for  bread,  until  his  worn-out  body  found 
peace  on  the  flow  of  the  tide." 

They  sat  in  silence,  watching  the  reaching  flames 
in  the  fireplace  and  thinking  of  the  sorrow  which 
lay  deepest  in  their  hearts. 

"Come,  Kathie!"  said  Mrs.  Gray  at  last.  "We 
are  all  sad  now.  You  must  rest  after  this  eventful 
afternoon.  For  our  lives,  we  dare  not  incur  the  an- 
ger of  that  little,  volcano,  Doctor  Orr." 

"Before  you  go,  lass,  play  to  us  once  more :  some- 
thing measured  and  merry;  something  stately  and 
dignified,"  asked  the  Captain. 

Ever  ready,  Kathie  rested  the  violin  under  her 
chin  and  with  a  graceful  movement  capered  into 
those  bewitching,  ear-haunting,  old  English  dances 
of  Edward  German — modern,  but  bringing  with 
them,  as  on  a  cinema  screen,  pictures  of  fair  ladies 
and  gallant  dandies;  silk  gowns,  patches  and  pow- 
dered wigs;  ruffles  and  silver  buckled  shoes;  the  po- 
lite bow,  the  dainty  minuet;  the  flirting  fan,  the  hon- 
eyed phrase  and  the  merry  laugh;  an  atmosphere  of 
wealth,  gaiety  and  friendly  rivalry;  an  undercurre.it 

of  intrigue. 

****** 

And,  on  the  still  wintry  air,  those  sweet  strains 
floated  high  and  clear  through  the  slightly  opened 
window,  across  the  bare  orchards,  until  they  reached 
the  edge  of  the  wood,  where  they  became  mere  whis- 


Witchery  151 

perings  of  the  fairies — more  imaginary  than  real. 

Faint  and  elusive,  they  reached  the  ear  of  one 
who  sat  on  the  low  fence,  in  gloomy  despondency. 
He  raised  his  head  and  looked  around  quickly,  like 
a  startled  stag;  then  he  gave  vent  to  a  hollow  laugh. 
But,  as  he  listened  again,  he  knew  that  he  had  not 
been  deceived  the  first  time.  He  bent  anxiously  to 
catch  the  direction  of  the  notes. 

What  ethereal  will-o'-the-wisp  was  this  that  haunt- 
ed his  fancies?  It  was  Kathie's  music — his  Kathie's 
— but — where  was  she?  Was  she  in  the  woods — 
in  the  hollow  at  Jackson's  ranch — over  by  the  lake 
— on  the  mound  where  she  used  to  play  to  him? 

"Kathie, — Kathie!"  he  cried  to  the  solitude 
around  him.  "Tell  me  where  to  find  you; — oh,  my 
love,  tell  me  where  I  may  find  you." 

In  the  quiet  that  ensued,  the  notes  came  clearer 
and  louder.  He  caught  at  their  source,  and  with  a 
glad  shout  he  ran  forward  to  Broadacres,  his  heart 
filled  with  thankfulness  and  his  eyes  blurred  with 
tears.  He  bounded  through  the  orchard  and  into 
the  house,  bursting  among  the  little  group  without 
ceremony,  ignoring  his  old  friends  for  the  girl  in 
the  midst  of  them. 

He  held  out  his  arms  to  her. 

"Kathie, — Kathie, — my  darling — my  own  dear 
heart,"  he  cried.  "They  told  me  you  had  gone  and 
they  would  not  tell  me  where." 

His  voice  was  strained  with  the  depth  of  his  emo- 


152      The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

tion.  She  rose  to  meet  him,  put  her  face  to  his  and 
kissed  him  full  on  the  lips.  He  held  her  close,  look- 
ing long  and  searchingly  into  her  steady  eyes. 

Quietly,  unobtrusively,  the  old  couple  slipped  out 
of  the  room,  leaving  their  young  friends  with  their 
love.  They  knew  now  who  was  the  Alick  of  Kath- 
ie's  day-dreams,  and  they  rejoiced  in  the  knowledge. 

"My  darling!"  exclaimed  Alick,  "how  I  have  hun- 
gered for  you !  how  I  have  hungered  I  I  went  over 
to  the  old  trysting  place  by  the  lake,  but  you  did  not 
come.  I  stayed  long,  but  at  last  had  to  return  home, 
sad  and  troubled.  I  could  not  rest;  I  could  not  eat; 
I  could  not  think  properly.  My  mind  seemed  to  be 
filling  with  some  dreadful  foreboding.  At  last  in 
desperation  I  called  at  your  uncle's,  but  they  laughed 
at  me  and  refused  to  tell  me  where  you  were.  Day 
after  day,  as  soon  as  school  was  over,  I  have  wan- 
dered about  aimlessly,  hoping  I  might  find  you  or 
hear  of  you,  yet  despairing  of  ever  seeing  you  again. 
Strange,  I  never  called  here. 

"But  tell  me,  Kathie — what  has  happened?  Your 
cheeks  are  pale  and  your  arms  are  thin.  Tell  me 
all?  And  if  you  have  been  wronged,  as  I  fear  you 
have,  I  will  right  the  wrong  if  it  takes  me  a  life- 
time to  do  it  in." 

Kathie  placed  her  hand  lightly  over  his  lips. 

"Hush,  hush  I  How  could  I  tell  you  if  I  thought 
by  so  doing,  evil  would  come  of  it?  I  met  with  an 
accident  on  the  night  of  the  blizzard.  I  was  found 


Witchery  153 

buried  in  the  snow  and  was  brought  here  by  Captain 
Gray.  Mrs.  Gray  has  nursed  me  through  all  my 
illness  and  both  have  brought  me  back  to  health 
again  by  their  kindnesses  and  their  generous  sym- 
pathies— although  they  never  saw  me  before  in  all 
their  lives. 

"Once,  Alick,  you  asked  me  to  come  here  and  I 
refused,  but  fate  has  intervened  for  my  own  good 
and  has  given  me  these  friends  who  now  are  dearer 
to  me  than  any  of  my  own  people." 

"Aren't  they  just  splendid?"  returned  Alick. 
"Now  I  owe  a  double  debt  to  Captain  Gray.  It  was 
Captain  Gray  who  pulled  me  out  of  the  slums  in  a 
city  in  the  Old  Land.  It  was  he  who  made  me  what 
I  now  am.  And  now  he  has  saved  for  me  the  great- 
est treasure  the  world  holds. 

"But  you  have  not  told  me  of  the  accident  which 
befell  you.  I  must  know  all  about  it,  dear,  before 
I  can  ever  hope  to  rest  with  a  peaceful  mind  again." 

"Alick,  if  I  tell  you  everything,  will  you  promise  to 
bear  no  grudge?  You  must  promise,  for  it  was  all 
a  mistake  and  I  have  forgiven.  Now  that  all  is  well 
again,  why  should  we  dig  up  the  troubles  that  have 
been  buried?" 

Reluctantly,  Alick  passed  his  word  and  Kathie 
told  him  of  the  scene  in  the  dairy,  of  her  grief  and 
her  stricken  sense,  of  the  return  of  her  voice  and  of 
her  present  happiness. 

He  sat  quietly  listening  until  she  had  finished. 


154      The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

"My  sweetheart,"  he  whispered  when  all  was 
told,  "we  must  put  a  stop  to  all  this.  There  need  be 
no  more  of  it — not  in  this  free  West.  You  are  not 
safe  down  there;  you  are  not  loved. 

"It  is  evident  that  even  your  life  counts  for  noth- 
ing with  them.  Let  me  take  you  away  from  it  all. 
I  need  you  and  you  need  me.  Why  should  you  work 
like  a  slave  and  stand  whatever  abuse  they  care  to 
heap  on  you?  You  are  worth  far  more  to  them  than 
they  are  to  you.  You  are  under  no  obligation  to 
them.  They  have  no  claim  upon  you  but  that  of 
relationship.  They  are  simply  using  you  for  their 
own  ends.  Come,  my  dear,  and  we  shall  be  happy- 
just  you  and  I  together." 

"Oh,  Alick,  Alick!  Do  not  make  it  harder  for 
me  to  bear.  You  promised  that  you  would  wait  and 
be  patient  until  I  was  ready.  This  has  brought  that 
time  nearer  than  it  was,  but  I  cannot  do  as  you  ask ; 
not  until  the  breaking  strain  has  been  reached.  They 
are  not  to  blame  for  what  happened  so  recently;  be- 
sides, they  are  my  mother's  people.  I  must  stand 
by  them  until  I  feel  that  I  have  paid  the  debt  I  owe 
to  them  for  making  a  home  for  me  when  I  was  prac- 
tically homeless." 

Kathie  took  Alick's  face  in  her  hands.  Her  eyes 
were  moist  and  her  voice  was  pleading. 

"Kiss  me,  my  lover,  and  let  us  be  content  in  the 
happiness  of  our  love  for  each  other — just  as  we 
are.  I  could  go  on — and  on — and  on — neither  hop- 


Witchery  155 

ing  nor  expecting — in  the  knowledge  that  I  had  your 
love.  Bear  with  me,  boy,  just  a  little  longer,  for  I 
must  go  back  and  help.  There  is  trouble  dowa 
there.  There  are  difficulties  which  they  shall  never 
be  able  to  surmount  and  there  are  debts  which  shall 
never  be  paid.  Not  that  the  ranch  doesn't  pay! — 
but  there  are  other  debts,  oil  speculations  and  min- 
ing speculations  of  my  uncle  in  his  foolishness  when 
he  should  have  devoted  his  every  cent  to  his  ranch. 
These  are  eating  the  family  up  like  a  cancer.  Every- 
thing has  been  mortgaged  for  them.  I  have  seen 
some  of  it  and  I  know. 

"A  cloud  of  ruin  is  gathering  over  their  heads, 
growing  bigger,  darker,  as  the  days  go  by.  And 
it  must  never  be  said  that  I  deserted  them  in  their 
trouble.  • 

"They  have  given  me  a  home,  no  matter  how  un- 
homelike  it  may  seem.  They  will  need  me.  It  is 
my  duty  to  stand  by  them  until  the  worst  is  past. 
Then,  Alick,  I  shall  be  free. 

"And,  if  our  love  be  unselfish  in  between  times, 
we  shall  be  happy  then;  for  there  is  deep  and  last- 
ing satisfaction  to  the  sailor  after  he  has  been  saved 
from  the  sea,  when  he  knows  that  he  stood  by  his 
ship  until  she  went  down." 


CHAPTER  TEN 
Roanstone  Fair 

THE  mare's  silky  coat  glistened  in  the  Spring 
sunshine  and  her  brass-mounted  harness 
trappings  shone  like  burnished  gold,  as  Lizbeth  and 
Kathie  sprang  into  the  newly  varnished  buggy  and 
drove  away  with  a  flourish  of  whip  and  a  merry 
good-bye. 

It  was  the  first  day  of  Roanstone  Fair,  the  annual 
Saturnalia  of  the  Ranch  hands,  when  the  meanest 
rancher  in  the  Valley  had,  perforce,  to  declare  a 
Holiday;  for  even  his  youngest  help— the  moment  he 
crawled  out  of  bed — proceeded  with  undue  haste  to 
deck  himself  out  in  his  best  cow-boy  trappings  and 
went  off  without  as  much  as  "by  your  leave." 

The  person  who  did  not  know  that  Roanstone 
Fair  was  on,  was  indeed  a  dullard.  All  roads  that 
day  led  to  Roanstone,  seven  miles  north  from  Ver- 
nock;  and  all  traffic  seemed  to  be  wending  in  that 
direction — from  old,  four-wheeled,  broken-down 
outfits,  with  their  father-and-mother-and-eight-of- 
a-family  loads  to  automobiles  and  the  smart  single 
and  tandem  buggies  of  the  well-to-do,  bearing  their 
gaily  clad  and  happy,  care-free  sweethearts. 

156 


Roanstone  Fair  157 

Now  and  again,  a  young  rancher  on  a  prancing 
horse  would  dash  up  alongside,  with  a  cheery  greet- 
ing, proud  to  be  on  speaking  terms  with  the  Jack- 
son girls,  whose  contrasting  beauty — full  and  volup- 
tuous; sylph-like  and  graceful — stirred  their  feel- 
ings in  most  perplexing  uncertainty  as  to  which  was 
the  more  beautiful  of  the  two.  But,  as  Kathie's 
quiet  reserve  was  more  often  misconstrued  than 
understood,  Lizbeth's  ready  tongue  and  careless 
freedom  generally  won  the  verdict  for  herself. 

After  a  joyful  morning  ride,  Lizbeth  and  Kathie 
put  up  the, horse  at  the  Kalahalla  Hotel  at  Roan- 
stone  and  made  for  the  Fair  Grounds;  having  cheer- 
fully endured  the  inane  jests  of  relay  escorts  in  the 
shape  of  the  many  galloping  gallants  who  were  evi- 
dently intent  on  making  every  moment  of  the  day 
contribute  its  quota  to  the  general  good  time. 

Thus  early,  the  scene  which  the  Fair  presented 
was  lively  and  kaleidoscopic.  Resplendent  showmen, 
elevated  on  high  platforms,  in  front  of  great  placard- 
ed tents,  were  already  lustily  drawing  attention  to 
the  marvellous  wonders  inside; — Fat  Ladies;  Wild 
Men  from  Borneo  who  ate  raw  meat;  Snake  Charm- 
ers; Armless  Wonders;  Freaks;  Performing  Ani- 
mals; Vaudeville  Entertainments;  languishing  Orien- 
tal Dancers,  and  a  hundred  other  dime-catchers — 
emphasising  their  glib  harangues  with  an  occasional 
resounding  whack  of  a  riding  whip  on  the  lurid  can- 


158      The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

vas  illustrations  at  their  backs,  or  a  heavy  thump 
on  a  big  drum. 

Sight-seers  in  their  hundreds  were  thus  early  push- 
ing their  way  to  the  pay-boxes  and  up  the  rickety 
stairs  leading  to  the  entertainments ;  taking  the  loud- 
mouthed Miinchausens  at  their  own  estimates,  hav- 
ing made  up  their  minds  that  this  was  a  day  on 
which  they  must  necessarily  be  swindled  and  duped 
right  from  the  beginning  and  it  was  useless  holding 
back. 

Others,  particularly  the  young  local  fry,  less  fortu- 
nate in  their  possession  of  worldly  wealth,  gaped 
from  below,  staving  their  unsatiated  appetites  on 
the  short-winded,  short-skirted,  gum-chewing,  smirk- 
ing, fat  and  lean  advertisements  for  powder  and 
rouge,  who  pirouetted  disdainfully  on  the  creaky 
platforms  in  front  of  the  show-entrances,  endeavour- 
ing vainly  to  keep  time  to  the  shrieking  music  of  a 
steam  calliope  attached  to  the  merry-go-round. 

Here  and  there,  husky,  red-cheeked  and  sun- 
tanned ranch-hands  were  exhibiting  their  ability  be- 
fore admiring  and  lusty  wives  and  sweethearts,  in 
knocking  down  fuzzy  dolls,  toppling  over  cocoanuts 
and  trying  to  cover  impossible,  red,  circular  patches 
on  a  board  with  tin  discs. 

A  huge  iron-bound  mallet  was  being  swung  with 
unceasing  regularity,  at  five  cents  a  time,  thumping 
a  peg  and  throwing  a  metal  mark  high  up  a  pole  to 
within  hailing  distance  of  a  bell  at  the  top,  every 


Roanstone  Fair  159 

inch  of  the  way  up  the  pole  emblazoned  with  be- 
wilderingly  increasing  numbers,  productive  of  a  feel- 
ing  in  the  minds  of  the  performers  that  they  were 
executing  prodigious  feats  of  strength. 

The  young  men,  to  a  man,  were  armed  with  paper 
and  feather  ticklers,  while  the  girls  gigglingly 
strewed  confetti  by  the  handful  upon  their  own  and 
other  girls'  male  escorts. 

Once  in  a  while,  sweethearts  embraced,  unabashed 
by  the  glare  of  the  noon-day  sun ;  while,  at  one  end 
of  the  show-ground,  on  a  specially  erected  platform, 
an  orchestra  was  endeavouring  to  make  itself  heard 
to  a  bevy  of  hilarious  and  buxom  two-steppers  and 
fox-trotters. 

Over  all  the  wildest  noise  of  pandemonium 
reigned,  making  it  impossible  to  hear  other  than  the 
loudest  shouts  and  the  most  discordant  sounds. 

Kathie  gazed  upon  this  scene  with  a  co-mingling 
of  surprise,  amazement  and  curiosity.  It  was  her 
first  visit  to  Roanstone's  Annual  Fair — or  for  that 
matter,  to  any  other  Fair,  outside  of  the  Bally- 
whallen  Market  Fair  where  a  merry-go-round,  some 
swing  boats,  a  ghost-show  and  a  shooting  gallery 
comprised  the  amusements — and  all  was  so  very 
new  to  her. 

She  felt  she  merely  wished  to  stand  idly  by  for 
hours  to  come,  and  watch  the  panorama. 

But  suddenly  and  unexpected  by  her,  the  deep, 


160      The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

bass  voice  of  Bob  Crawford  roused  her  from  her 
reverie. 

Crawford  was  smartly  set  out  in  real  Western 
police  fashion  and  looked  every  inch  a  man. 

At  his  repeated  insistence,  she  and  Lizbeth  fol- 
lowed him  to  another  part  of  the  extensive  grounds, 
where  the  better-class  had  already  foregathered  for 
the  exhibition  of  live  stock  and  horse-racing.  All  the 
early  part  of  that  afternoon,  from  one  point  to 
another,  with  the  polished  manners  of  a  gentleman, 
Crawford  escorted  the  two  young  ladies  round,  pro- 
tecting them  when  the  throng  became  too  great  and 
explaining  a  thousand-and-one  things  to  them  which 
they  did  not  fully  understand. 

Many  were  the  soft  glances  that  passed  between 
him  and  Lizbeth.  Endearing  phrases  were  ex- 
changed, and,  once  in  a  while  when  the  crowd  gath- 
ered closely,  their  fingers  touched  and  pressed  in 
passionate  ignition. 

But,  in  her  deep  interest  in  the  novelties  on  every 
side  of  her,  Kathie  was  oblivious  of  the  flirta- 
tion. 

Only  when  they  were  all  seated  in  the  large,  mar- 
kee  tent  at  dinner  time,  did  it  occur  to  Kathie  that 
the  intimacy  between  Crawford  and  Lizbeth  had 
grown  to  avowed  love.  All  through  the  meal,  their 
heads  were  together  in  whispered  converse,  and 
Kathie's  presence  seemed  almost  forgotten  by  them. 


Roanstone  Fair  161 

Ere  she  had  finished,  the  two  rose  as  if  moved 
by  a  common  impulse. 

"Don't  hurry,  Kathie,"  said  Lizbeth,  leaning  over 
her  shoulder,  "we  are  going  for  a  quick  run  over  to 
Menstone  to  see  a  friend  of  Bob's.  We'll  be  back 
in  an  hour  or  so." 

"You  won't  mind  staying  here — will  you?"  asked 
Crawford. 

"Not  a  bit,"  replied  Kathie  innocently.  "Go 
along.  There  are  heaps  and  heaps  to  amuse  me 
here  until  you  come  back."  And  she  spoke  sin- 
cerely, for  there  were  many  little  things  at  the  Fair 
that  she  had  wished  to  investigate  but  had  not  been 
able  to,  while  the  others  were  with  her,  with  their 
special  likes  and  dislikes  to  be  considered  and  their 
constant  hurrying  away  here  and  there. 

"We'll  meet  you  at  the  Kalahalla  Hotel  at  six 
o'clock,"  continued  Lizbeth.  "But  if  we  should 
happen  to  be  a  little  late,  harness  up  and  drive  home. 
We  won't  be  long  behind  you  and  Bob  can  easily 
get  us  a  conveyance  of  some  kind." 

Kathie  did  not  relish  the  idea  of  driving  home 
alone,  but  as  she  had  no  say  in  the  matter  one  way 
or  the  other,  she  accepted  the  instruction  with  good 
grace,  hoping  there  would  be  no  necessity  for  her 
having  to  meet  such  a  contingency. 

The  few  intervening  hours  passed  all  too  quick- 
ly. Kathie  sauntered  over  to  watch  the  last  of  the 
horse  races ;  she  examined  the  butter  and  baking  ex- 


162      The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

hibits  and  she  witnessed  the  judging  of  the  Beauty 
Show,  where  tittering  local  girls  stood  on  a  plat- 
form, before  their  joking  swains,  and  were  gone 
over  by  a  committee  of  respectable  townsmen,  who 
surely  had  accepted  their  appointments  without  con- 
sidering what  they  were  letting  themselves  in  for. 

She  heard  the  decision,  which  was  accepted  amid 
a  volley  of  protests  from  the  men  and  was  the  occa- 
sion of  much  heart-burning  among  the  girls.  How- 
ever, it  was  all  in  the  day's  enjoyment  and  had  to 
be  swallowed  with  the  rest. 

At  the  approach  of  six  o'clock  Kathie  was  at  the 
hotel  corner,  awaiting  the  return  of  Lizbeth  and 
Crawford.  She  was  tired  out  with  so  much  walk- 
ing and  sight-seeing  and  was  ready  and  anxious  to 
begin  her  homeward  journey. 

The  clock  on  the  old  town  hall  opposite  clanged 
out  the  hour,  then,  in  monotone,  it  signalled  half  an 
hour  more — but  still  there  was  no  sign  of  her  cousin 
and  her  cousin's  lover. 

One  after  another,  the  various  parties  returned  to 
the  Kalahalla  Hotel  on  foot,  harnessed  up  and  drove 
merrily  away. 

Kathie  walked  up  and  down  impatiently  until  an- 
other hour  had  flown.  Rancher  Muir — that  kindly 
old  neighbour — saw  her  and  offered  to  drive  her 
home  with  him,  but  she  declined,  feeling  sure  that 
the  truants  would  soon  put  in  an  appearance. 

But  after  he  had  gone,  misgivings  began  to  assail 


Roanstone  Fair  163 

her.  There  was  a  ten-mile  journey  ahead,  darkness 
was  gathering,  and  she  was  not  at  all  certain  of  her 
way. 

She  wandered  aimlessly  back  to  where  the  cattle 
exhibit  had  been  held.  Here  and  there  in  the  dis- 
tance the  gruff  voices  of  departing  ranchers  and  their 
men  were  audible.  Still  farther  away  the  hoot  of 
an  automobile  and  the  laughter  and  singing  of  a 
joyous  party  starting  out  for  home  struck  her  ears 
and  gradually  died  away  until  the  sounds  faded  into 
silence. 

The  scene  of  the  afternoon's  gaiety  was  now  lone- 
ly-looking and  almost  deserted. 

Kathie  turned  from  the  place,  back  again  to  the 
Hotel,  where  the  glow  of  the  electric  lamps  presented 
a  slightly  cheerier  aspect  than  the  darkness  and 
empty  benches  of  the  Show  Grounds.  She  had  little 
hope  now  of  meeting  her  cousin,  yet  she  hesitated  to 
go  in  and  prepare  for  her  homeward  journey. 

She  sauntered  to  the  other  side  of  the  little 
town. 

The  discordant  music  of  the  steam  calliope,  the 
rattle  of  musketry  in  the  shooting  galleries  and  the 
raucous  shouts  of  the  showmen  all  seemed  to  be 
struggling  in  a  deadly  conflict  with  the  approaching 
night,  madly  endeavouring  to  hold  the  local  roister- 
ers still  a  little  longer.  Flaring  oil  lamps  hung  from 
poles  alongside  the  various  stands;  the  ground  was 
trodden  and  somewhat  miry.  But  the  crowd  was  still 


164      The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

gathered  there,  and  it  was  more  emphatic  in  the 
little  forgiveable  flagrancies  with  which  it  had  be- 
spread the  day.  The  tireless  dancers  still  threw 
themselves  with  a  careless  abandon  into  each  other's 
arms,  wiggled  and  side-stepped,  bandied  jests  and 
chewed  gum  amid  hilarious  laughter. 

Somewhere  else  wftd  and  angry  voices  would 
start  up  in  altercation,  the  sound  of  a  blow  would  be 
heard,  a  mad  rush,  a  circle  all  animated  and  ex- 
cited; encouraging  shouts,  then  a  scattering  in  all 
directions;  telling  Kathie  of  another  phase  in  the 
life  of  the  day. 

She  shrank  back  into  one  of  the  many  looming 
shadows,  timid  and  horrified,  yet  fascinated  by  the 
strangeness  of  the  scene.  A  man  swung  round  the 
booth  behind  her.  To  fly  would  have  been  to  show 
herself  in  the  glare  of  the  lights.  She  gathered  close 
against  the  woodwork.  The  man  came  up,  peered 
into  her  face,  tipped  her  chin  up  and  passed  on  with 
a  laugh.  He  was  followed  by  another  of  his  kind — 
slouching  and  singing  a  maudlin  chorus — who  pushed 
against  her  as  by  accident  and  clutched  at  her  in  a 
befuddled  manner,  without  even  raising  his  head 
from  his  chest  where  it  swung  helpless.  Kathie's 
nostrils  became  filled  with  the  nauseating  fumes  from 
his  foul  breath.  She  struck  out  in  loathing.  She 
wrenched  herself  from  the  man's  grasp  as  he  stag- 
gered back,  and  with  a  cry  and  with  cheeks  afire, 


Roanstone  Fair  165 

she  ran  from  the  nightmare  of  a  place  back  to  the 
mai.i  street  and  the  Hotel. 

The  sound  of  loud  voices,  popping  corks  and 
clinking  glasses  issued  from  the  busy  bar-room.  A 
stable-boy  was  leaning  lazily  against  the  corner 
hitching-post. 

"Would  you  please  let  me  have  Mr.  Jackson's 
horse  and  buggy?"  Kathie  asked,  approaching  him 
nervously. 

"Guess  there  ain't  no  horse  and  buggy  of  Jack- 
son's here,  miss,"  he  answered,  without  changing 
his  position  but  squirting  some  tobacco  juice  through 
a  hole  in  his  front  tooth  on  to  the  plank  sidewalk. 

"Oh  yes  there  is  I"  she  reiterated  positively.  "I 
saw  them  put  up  myself." 

"Maybe  you  did,  miss.  I  ain't  contradictin'.  But 
the  stable  is  empty  now,  thank  the  Lord !  The  last 
horse  beat  it  for  home-and-mother  an  hour  ago." 

Kathie  stood  in  utter  despair.  Her  alarm  and 
anxiety  grew  great  indeed,  so  much  so  that  it  aroused 
the  sympathy  of  the  stable  boy. 

"Say! — cut  out  any  faintin'  stuff,  miss.  The  road 
ain't  very  clean. 

"Now  I  recTect,"  he  went  on,  scratching  his  head 
as  an  aid  to  his  memory,  "Crawford,  the  Police 
Chief,  and  Miss  Jackson  drove  away  in  their  buggy 
this  afternoon.  They  were  the  very  first  to  go." 

"You  must  be  making  some  mistake,"  remonstrat- 
ed Kathie,  tapping  her  foot  on  the  ground  nervously. 


166      The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

"They  said  they  were  going  to  walk  and  would  come 
back  later  for  the  buggy." 

"Guess  the  dame  must  have  changed  her  mind, 
miss.  That's  a  habit  with  them  high-steppers/'  re- 
joined the  boy,  his  air  and  tone  that  of  one  who  had 
been  through  the  mill.  "And  they  didn't  come  back 
neither. 

"Say! — what's  the  mat — ?  Been  left  at  an  auc- 
tion sale?" 

"Is  that  the  Vernock  Road?"  she  asked,  ignoring 
his  inquisitiveness. 

"You  bet  it  is  1  But,  say ! — lookee  here, — a  young 
lady  like  you  ain't  going  to  leg  it  there  at  this  time 
of  night." 

"Oh  yes,  lam!" 

"Oh  no,  you  ain't! — not  until  IVe  told  the  boss, 
anyway,"  he  persisted.  "You  just  freeze  to  this  spot 
a  minute,  miss.  They've  got  to  fix  you  up  some- 
how." 

He  turned  into  the  bar-room,  but  the  moment  he 
disappeared  Kathie  hurried  off  into  the  darkness. 

For  a  time  her  trust  in  herself  was  gone,  so  was 
her  faith  in  her  fellow  beings;  and  the  loneliness 
and  the  darkness  were  more  welcome  to  her  than 
the  doubtful  kindness  of  others.  So  she  made  along 
the  road  which  she  knew  must  bring  her  in  time  to 
Vernock  and  ultimately  to  her  uncle's  ranch. 

There  was  a  rebellious  feeling  in  Kathie's  heart 
at  the  deceit  of  her  cousin,  but,  as  she  trudged  along, 


Roanstone  Fair  167 

its  bitterness  got  washed  away  by  an  inflow  of 
anxiety,  as  it  gradually  bore  in  on  her  that  there 
might  have  been  an  accident — perhaps  a  runaway 
or  an  overthrow.  The  more  she  thought  of  it  the 
more  she  became  convinced  that  that,  and  that  only, 
could  account  for  the  non-appearance  of  Lizbeth  and 
her  escort  at  the  time  they  had  appointed. 

On  and  on  she  trudged,  steadily  and  almost  list- 
lessly: behind  her,  the  fading  lights  of  Roanstone; 
before  her,  darkness  and  uncertainty;  with  her,  fore- 
bodings with  which  she  had  not  the  strength  to 
battle. 

The  way  felt  interminable,  as  seemingly  hour  af- 
ter hour  dragged  on.  Her  heart  would  start  off 
beating  furiously  at  the  barking  of  a  dog.  The  dis- 
lodging of  a  stone  with  her  foot  would  send  her 
trembling  to  the  side  of  the  road.  The  pathway 
before  her  was  deserted  and  the  night  air  was  un- 
cannily quiet.  Of  humanity,  she  encountered  only 
one,  a  tattered  hobo  who  passed  in  the  opposite  di- 
rection and  after  he  had  gone  a  few  yards  turned 
back  and  looked  after  her.  But  Kathie's  flying  feet 
left  him  with  nothing  but  the  gloom  of  night  to  gaze 
upon. 

Time  and  again,  as  a  light  gleamed  ahead,  her 
spirits  would  revive  with  the  hope  that  it  would 
prove  to  be  Vernock  at  last,  and  time  and  again  she 
encountered  the  same  disappointment,  as  only  a 


168      The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

a  rancher's  barn  or  a  labourer's  house  would  loom 
up,  strange  and  unknown. 

When  her  hopes  were  almost  gone,  a  number  of 
twinkling  lights  came  to  view  at  a  turn  of  the  road. 
As  she  drew  nearer,  familiar  steeples  and  buildings 
loomed  up,  and  Vernock — more  welcome  than  she 
could  ever  express — came  within  hail.  She  hast- 
ened forward  and  was  soon  trudging  along  through 
the  quiet,  sleeping,  little  town,  past  the  Post  Office 
and  the  Hotel,  then  on  to  the  Ordlake  Road,  which, 
after  three  miles  more,  must  bring  her  home. 

She  walked  on  and  on  with  the  mechanical  move- 
ment of  an  automaton.  A  lethargy  settled  over  her, 
killing  her  weariness;  and  almost  before  she  was 
aware  of  it,  the  angry  but  familiar  and  welcome 
voice  of  her  uncle  aroused  her.  He  was  standing 
at  the  road-end  which  she  would  have  passed  in  her 
semi-stupor. 

"What  the  devil  does  this  mean?"  he  demanded. 
"One  o'clock  in  the  morning.  Where's  Lizbeth?" 

In  her  weakness,  Kathie  almost  collapsed,  and 
her  uncle  went  to  her  aid  and  assisted  her  into  the 
house. 

"Where's  Lizbeth?"  he  asked  again  with  consid- 
erable concern. 

"I — I  don't  know,  uncle.  I  thought  she  might  be 
here.  They  left  me  early  in  the  afternoon  to  visit 
someone  in  Menstone.  They  promised  to  be  back 
for  me  at  six  o'clock.  I  waited  and  I  waited — but 


Roanstone  Fair  169 

they  did  not  come.  Finally,  I  had  to  walk  home 
alone." 

"And  you  mean  to  tell  me  you  walked  home  that 
road,  on  this  night  of  all  nights?"  he  inquired. 

Kathie  nodded  listlessly. 

"What  did  you  mean,  Kathie,  when  you  said  they 
left  early  in  the  afternoon.  Who  was  with  Liz- 
beth?" 

"Crawford." 

"Damn  and  blast  that  man  anyway,"  he  exclaimed 
angrily.  "Some  of  these  days  I'll  be  the  death  of 
him  or  he'll  be  the  ruin  of  me." 

"But  you  go  up  to  your  bed,  lass,"  he  continued 
almost  kindly.  "You've  had  more  than  enough  for 
one  day.  I'll  stay  up  till  Lizbeth  gets  here." 

All  night  long  Colin  Jackson  sat  at  the  fire,  wait- 
ing Lizbeth's  return.  But  it  was  not  until  Kathie 
had  the  cows  milked  and  pastured;  not  until  the  rigs 
were  distributing  their  contents  in  Vernock,  that  the 
buggy  dashed  up  the  road  leading  to  Jackson's,  with 
Lizbeth  and  Crawford  chatting  pleasantly  in  evi- 
dent unconcern. 

Colin  Jackson  met  them  at  the  door. 

Lizbeth  jumped  down  and  ran  toward  him,  throw- 
ing her  arms  on  his  shoulders. 

"Aren't  you  awfully  glad  to  see  me,  dad?"  she 
asked  with  a  pout,  as  if  her  feelings  were  hurt  at  his 
apparent  cold  reception.  "Do  you  know,  you  might 
never  have  seen  me  again?" 


170      The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

Colin  Jackson  little  knew  how  near  the  truth 
she  spoke. 

"Why  the  deuce  didn't  you  come  home  with 
Kathie?"  he  asked. 

"Is  she  home?"  asked  Lizbeth.  "Oh  good!  I'm 
so  glad.  You  see,  dad, — Bob  and  I  went  for  a 
drive  to  visit  some  friends  of  his.  On  the  way  back 
for  Kathie,  the  buggy  slipped,  a  tire  and  we  were 
thrown  into  the  ditch.  We  had  to  lead  the  horse 
back  to  Menstone  and  had  to  put  up  there  over 
night.  We  had  the  tire  refixed  first  thing  this  morn- 
ing by  the  blacksmith — and  here  we  are." 

Lizbeth  patted  her  father's  cheek  playfully. 

"Don't  be  angry,  dad,"  she  reproached.  "I  was 
well  looked  after,  and  it  is  all  right  now." 

All  this  time  Crawford  was  standing  holding  the 
horse  by  the  head.  Jackson  went  over  and  examined 
the  tire.  It  had  been  repaired,  bearing  out  the  ver- 
bal evidence  of  Lizbeth.  He  turned  to  Crawford. 

"I  am  much  obliged  to  you,  Crawford,  for  see- 
ing this  through  and  for  looking  after  Lizbeth. 
I'll  be  still  more  obliged  if  you  say  nothing  about 
this  mishap  to  anybody." 

"Sure  thing,  boss!"  replied  Crawford  good- 
naturedly.  "I  won't  say  a  word." 

Colin  Jackson  put  his  face  close  to  Crawford's. 

"But  the  biggest  obligement  you  can  do  me,  Craw- 
ford, is  to  turn  your  back  and  go — and  never  let  me 
hear  of  you  or  see  you  again." 


Roanstone  Fair  171 

He  took  the  reins  from  the  police  chief  and 
pointed  to  the  side  road. 

"Nothin'  like  asking  a  lot  when  you  are  at  it," 
remarked  Crawford,  laughing  sarcastically.  He 
turned  on  his  heel.  "I'm  sorry,  old  man,  but  I  can't 
oblige." 


CHAPTER  ELEVEN 
Off  With  the  Old,  On  With  the  New 

KATHIE  awoke  with  the  cool  night  air  blowing 
on  her  face.  The  moonlight  was  streaming  into 
her  bedroom.  Lizbeth  was  amissing  from  her  side. 
This  latter,  however,  was  no  new  experience  for 
Kathie,  so  she  gave  the  matter  little  thought.  She 
rose  to  pull  down  the  blind.  As  she  got  up  close 
to  the  window  she  stumbled  over  a  rope  which  had 
been  attached  to  the  bedpost  and  led  to  the  open  case- 
ment. She  looked  over  the  sill  and  saw  that  the  rope 
was  attached  to  a  crude  rope-ladder. 

She  smiled  as  she  thought  how  old  the  scheme  was 
and  how  often  it  had  been  used  by  lovers  in  the 
centuries  long  gone  by. 

The  sound  of  voices  from  below  caught  her  ear 
and  arrested  her  attention.  She  looked  out  and 
saw  two  figures  standing  in  the  shadow  of  the  spread- 
ing Manitoba  Maple  whose  branches  reached  to 
within  a  few  yards  of  the  window.  She  could  see  at 
a  glance  that  the  two  were  her  cousin  and  her 
cousin's  sweetheart. 

Lizbeth  was  clinging  round  Crawford's  neck  and 
172 


Off  With  the  Old,  On  With  the  New  173 

straining  her  face  to  his.  Her  voice  was  raised  in 
anxious  entreaty. 

"You  mustn't  go,  Bob,"  she  pleaded.  "It  isn't 
right — it  isn't  fair  to  leave  me  here  now." 

"Then  why  won't  you  come  with  me  ?"  he  replied. 
"I  have  asked  you  until  I  am  sick  of  asking.  You 
won't  let  me  speak  to  the  old  man — not  that  speak- 
ing would  make  any  impression  on  him.  You  tell  me 
I've  got  to  make  a  home  for  you  first.  I  can't  do  that 
decently  here,  so  what  else  can  I  do.  I've  got  to 
go.  You  know  that  as  well  as  I  do.  I'm  too  well 
known  here  to  run  a  bluff  the  way  so  many  strangers 
can  do. 

"I'm  no  damned  good  in  this  Valley.  I've  tried  it 
for  a  good  number  of  years  now  and  I  give  it  up. 
I've  got  to  get  out  to  some  place  where  nobody 
knows  me ;  I've  got  to  cut  old  acquaintances  and  old 
boozing  habits.  See  here,  Liz ! — you've  got  to  be 
reasonable  about  this.  For  God's  sake!  don't  kill 
the  only  little  bit  of  good  there  is  in  me.  If  I  stay 
here  I'll  never  get  any  better.  Too  many  would-be 
good  sports  around  here!  If  I  stay  here  I  won't 
be  able  to  have  you; — for  to  have  you  I've  simply 
got  to  save.  Oh,  I  know !  Now  this  kind  of  a  dog- 
in-the-manger  life  we've  been  living  can't  go  on.  If 
I  go  away,  I'm  going  for  you.  You  know  that. 
There  ain't  anybody  else  I  would  go  for.  Do  you 
hear,  Liz, — for  you,  for  you — and  for " 

Lizbeth  quickly  clamped  her  hand  over  his  mouth. 


174      The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

"Shut  up !"  she  exclaimed  fiercely.  "Don't  be  a 
fool — even  if  there  isn't  anybody  about." 

"It  will  be  only  for  a  year  or  two,  Liz,"  he  went 
on,  ignoring  her  interruption.  "Then  I'll  send  for 
you  and  you  can  come  after  me.  It'll  be  a  fine  life 
there,  and  we  are  both  suited  for  it.  I  was  brought 
up  on  a  sheep  farm  in  Oregon.  You  know  something 
of  stock-raising.  They  tell  me  it's  a  great  country 
over  there  in  Australia;  that  it  can't  be  beat  for 
sheep  raising.  My  uncle  there  is  willing  to  show  me 
the  ropes,  and  later,  start  me  in  on  my  own.  It's  the 
chance  of  a  life-time.  God,  Liz! — it's  my  only 
chance — our  only  chance.  I'm  not  going  to  miss  it. 
Understand  me,  Liz — it's  got  to  be." 

His  force  and  power  held  Lizbeth  for  a  while. 

"Oh,  Bob,"  she  cried  tremulously,  "you  know  I 
love  you.  You  can  make  me  agree  to  almost  any- 
thing. But  I  don't  feel  so  keenly  on  this  as  you  do. 
Maybe  what  you  say  is  true — but  I  like  the  Valley 
here.  Maybe  it  is  a  wonderful  country — but  you  are 
going  away  from  here  and  I  have  to  remain  and  do 
the  weary  waiting.  Two  years  is  a  long  time.  One 
year  is  a  long  time.  Too  long!  Anything  might 
happen." 

Her  emotion  carried  her  away  and  her  passion 
blazed  out  again  hysterically  as  she  pushed  him  from 
her. 

"I  tell  you  what  it  is,  Bob— if  you  go  away  there, 
bad  is  going  to  come  of  it.  I  know  it  as  surely  as 


Off  With  the  Old,  On  With  the  New  175 

I  know  you.  You  have  no  right  to  leave  me.  You 
would  not  do  it  if  you  really  cared  for  me.  Oh, 
I  know  you.  YouVe  been  the  same  since  the  first 
time  I  heard  your  name  mentioned.  The  woman  you 
are  with  is  the  only  woman  for  you — for  a  time,  till 
you  get  tired  of  her.  Then,  she  is  like  all  the 
others,  and,  if  you  can't  slip  out  of  it  with  a  fair 
front,  you  slink  away  by  the  back  door.  But  I 
won't  keep  you  back.  You  can  go.  When  you  do 
go — stay.  That's  all!" 

Crawford  caught  her  by  the  shoulders  almost 
angrily.  His  face  was  tense  and  close  to  hers. 

"Good  God!  Liz, — do  you  know  what  you  are 
saying.  You're  crazy-mad,  stark  mad.  I  ain't  like 
that — not  now.  You  know  I  ain't.  But  you  keep 
on  driving  at  me  and  driving  at  me.  I  love  you,  Liz. 
Love — "  he  laughed  bitterly,  "Hell ! — love  ain't  the 
word; — it  ain't  half  strong  enough.  I  used  to  love 
you,  but  ever  since  the  Roanstone  Fair,  two  months 
ago,  I  would  roast  in  blazes  for  you — and  you  know 
it,  too.  You're  mine.  Liz — mine;  from  the  top  of 
your  curls  to  your  toes.  And  the  good  God  help  any 
man  that  says  you  ain't,  or  tries  to  come  between 


us." 


He  caught  her  and  crushed  her  to  him  with  his 
powerful  arms,  showering  kisses  on  her  face  and  her 
hair,  until  she  cried  out  in  protest.  She  laid  her 
head  on  his  shoulder  at  last  and  sighed  contentedly, 
with  the  purr  of  a  satisfied  kitten. 


176      The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

"Bob — I  know  you  love  me  and  that  no  one  will 
ever  love  me  better.  I'll  wait  for  you — only,  you 
must  not  keep  me  waiting  too  long." 

What  a  chance,  thought  Kathie,  as  she  turned 
away  from  the  window,  for  a  good  woman  with  a 
man  who  could  love  like  that.  It  was  the  love  of 
the  savage ;  the  love  that  would  kill  whatever  came 
between,  and  glory  in  the  killing;  the  love  that  would 
become  criminal  and  would  rot  in  prison  at  the  com- 
mand of  the  beloved ;  and,  better  still,  the  love  that 
would  strive  and  achieve,  and  rise  to  immeasurable 
heights,  all  at  the  call  of  a  woman. 

A  few  moments  later,  Lizbeth  climbed  over  the 
sill,  released  the  ropes  and  cast  them  free,  closing 
the  window  softly.  Kathie  was  already  abed.  Liz- 
beth threw  herself  into  a  chair  and  sobbed  in  utter 
dejection. 

Kathie  rose  again  to  comfort  her. 

"What  is  the  matter,  Lizbeth?"  she  asked  kind- 
ly. "You  must  not  cry  like  that.  Come  to  bed! 
It  will  be  all  right." 

"Oh,  no  it  won't,"  said  Lizbeth  bitterly.  "He  is 
going  away  on  Saturday  and  I  won't  see  him  again 
— I  know  I  won't." 

"Yes! — I  heard  him  tell  you,"  answered  Kathie 
quietly  and  innocently.  "Your  voices  awakened  me." 

Lizbeth  sat  up  at  once. 

"Say!     You  haven't  been  spying  on  us?" 


Off  With  the  Old,  On  With  the  New  177 

"No! — not  a  bit  of  it.  I  could  not  help  hear- 
mg." 

"You  heard  him  saying  he  was  going  away.  Well  I 
— what  else  did  you  hear?'* 

"Nothing — only  that;  and  that  he  loved  you,  Liz- 
beth, — nothing  more.  If  I  had,  and  it  was  not  in- 
tended that  I  should  know  it,  I  would  have  made  it 
my  duty  to  have  forgotten  it  by  this  time." 

"You're  a  pretty  deep  one,  you  are,  Kathie. 
There's  no  knowing  just  what  you  know.  But  I 
don't  mind  you,  for  you  know  how  to  keep  your 
mouth  shut.  That's  one  good  thing  about  you  any- 
way. 

"When  Bob  Crawford  is  here  beside  me,  I  love 
him — every  woman  does — every  woman  but  you. 
You're  too  smart  for  his  kind.  But,  when  he's 
away,  I  hate  him  like  poison." 

"All  the  same,  there's  something  good  in  Craw- 
ford," remarked  Kathie,  "and  a  good  woman  could 
make  a  good  man  of  him." 

"That's  as  good  as  saying  I'm  not  good,"  was 
Lizbeth's  quick  retort.  "All  right! — you  have  a  go 
at  him  and  we'll  see  what  kind  of  a  job  you  make. 
I'm  through  with  him.  As  sure  as  he  goes  away 
from  here,  he  sees  the  last  of  me.  There  are  other 
men  beside  Bob  Crawford — better  men,  too.  The 
quicker  he  understands  that  the  better  for  him. 

"Maybe  it  is  as  well  that  he  is  leaving  the  Coun- 
try. I  had  a  letter  yesterday  from  young  Tom 


178      The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

Menteith.  You  don't  know  him.  He's  been  on  his 
father's  tea  plantation  in  Ceylon  since  he  left  school, 
but  he's  in  Winnipeg  now  and  is  coming  home  next 
week.  Tom  and  I  used  to  play  at  being  sweethearts. 
He  liked  me  then — maybe  he'll  like  me  now.  We'll 
96t* 

She  sat  for  a  while,  carried  away  by  her  new 
train  of  thought,  then  she  sprang  to  her  feet,  throw- 
ing her  arms  in  the  air  with  a  despairing  cry. 

"Oh,  I  hate  you,  Crawford.  I  hate  you  as  I  hate 
the  devil  himself.  Would  to  God  I  had  never  seen 
your  face." 

She  threw  herself  on  her  knees  at  the  bedside, 
burying  her  face  in  the  sheets  and  sobbing  as  if  her 

heart  would  break. 

****** 

And  thus  it  was;  when  Crawford  went  away  to 
make  a  place  on  an  Australian  sheep-farm  for  Liz- 
beth  Jackson,  Tom  Menteith  returned  to  his  old 
home  after  a  long  sojourn  abroad  in  the  interests 
of  his  father's  business. 

Tom  Menteith  drove  to  the  church  at  Vernock 
with  his  old  father,  behind  a  pair  of  prancing  greys. 
He  looked  about  him  for  familiar  faces  and  he  saw 
one,  like  the  face  of  the  older  sister  of  one  he. had 
once  known.  The  bloom  on  the  ripening  cheek,  the 
large  languorous  eyes  with  the  long,  drooping  eye- 
lashes, the  blood-red  lips  and  the  perfectly  formed 
bosom — these  were  the  sermon  he  listened  to  that 


Off  With  the  Old,  On  With  the  New  179 

morning;  and  the  impressions  that  that  sermon  left 
were  deeper  and  more  refreshing  to  him  than  any 
he  had  ever  before  listened  to,  making  him  wish  that 
every  day  were  Sunday  and  that  every  hour  were 
the  hour  of  worship. 

When  the  service  was  over,  he  drove  back  from 
church  in  Lizbeth's  buggy.  In  the  quiet  of  that  Sun- 
day evening,  he  dropped  in  to  shake  hands  with  the 
oldest  neighbouring  rancher  and  he  stayed  for  tea 
— just  for  old  acquaintance's  sake. 

Next  day,  a  new  man  was  working  on  Jackson's 
Ranch,  and  Lizbeth  was  temporarily  relieved  of  all 
her  farm  duties. 

The  last  link  was  being  forged,  and  many  were 
the  eventualities  which  depended  on  that  last  link's 
ability  to  hold  the  entire  Thain  together. 

Tom  Menteith  called  for  Lizbeth  early  in  the 
afternoon  and  took  her  driving.  He  feasted  his 
eyes  on  her  fresh  beauty.  He  gloried  in  her  small- 
talk.  He  smiled  at  her  gossip  and  laughed  at  the 
caricatures  she  drew  of  old,  known  faces. 

She  accelerated  the  sluggish  flow  of  his  sun-boiled 
blood  and  roused  him  to  his  best — just  as  she  used 
to  do,  years  before,  when  she  taunted  him  to  take 
the  fences  as  high  as  his  pony,  showing  him  the  way 
herself  and  laughing  him  to  ridicule  and  emulation. 

By  an  accident  during  that  little  journey,  her  hand 
touched  his.  And  it  set  the  spark.  The  contact 
thrilled  him  like  wine  of  some  rare  vintage.  He 


i8o      The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

longed  for  the  touch  again,  and  when  it  did  not 
come,  manlike,  he  longed  the  more. 

How  temptingly  her  hand  lay  on  her  lap! — too 
near  to  be  resisted.  He  placed  his  own  over  hers 
and  toyed  with  her  fingers  for  the  briefest  of  sweet- 
est moments.  She  withdrew  her  hand  from  his  and 
looked  away  to  the  uplands.  He  begged  forgive- 
ness, but  she  did  not  speak  again — not  until  they 
were  nearing  home.  Then  she  granted  him  full  par- 
don for  his  daring,  bestowing  on  him  a  smile  of 
tenderness  which  remained  with  him  long  after  she 
had  gone  indoors. 

And  he  liked  her  the  more  for  her  reserve,  for  he 
felt  then  that  she  was  no  light-o'-love  to  be  wooed 
by  a  glance  and  won  by  a  stolen  kiss. 

Next  forenoon  he  called  for  her  once  more.  But 
she  had  gone  off  early  in  the  morning  on  a  visit 
to  a  friend  somewhere  on  the  other  side  of  Ver- 
nock.  He  departed  with  a  careless  laugh,  and  spent 
the  remainder  of  the  day  in  irritability  and  gloom. 

A  note,  delivered  by  a  ranch-hand,  awaited  Liz- 
beth's  return.  She  read  it,  and  kissed  it,  and  placed 
it  in  her  bosom. 

The  anger  of  her  father  at  the  apparent  slight  she 
had  given  to  young  Menteith,  when  she  must  have 
known  he  would  call,  frothed  and  bubbled  over. 

"Are  you  going  to  let  this  chance  slip  by  like  a 
fool?"  he  asked,  "when  you  know  you'll  never  get 
another  like  it.  Tom  Menteith  is  the  man,  and  the 


Off  With  the  Old,  On  With  the  New  181 

only  man  at  that,  who  can  twist  the  old  man  round 
his  little  finger.  He's  a  man  who  can  make  you  a 
lady  and  who  can  lift  the  burden  from  your  old 
father's  shoulders  with  a  snap  of  his  thumb  and 
finger." 

"Now,  dad,  if  you  want  things  to  run  smoothly 
just  leave  me  alone  and  mind  your  own  affairs,"  Liz- 
beth  replied. 

"Yes,  yes,  lass!"  he  went  on  in  ruffled  excitement. 
"But  I  sold  the  stallion  a  month  ago — you  know 
that.  I  sold  six  of  my  best  milkers  yesterday.  One 
thing  after  another  is  going  and  will  have  to  go  if 
matters  don't  mend.  There's  a  threat  from  the 
makers  of  the  new  reaper  that  they  will  take  it  back 
if  the  payments  are  not  kept  up.  They're  talking  of 
closing  me  out  of  the  ranch  because  I  am  away  be- 
hind. There  are  debts  as  high  as  the  Court  House. 
It  can't  last  but  a  few  months  more.  For  God's 
sake,  Lizbeth,  don't  fail  me  this  time.  I've  done  my 
best  by  you  and  I  am  at  my  wits'  end  and  at  the  end 
of  my  resources." 

"Well,  then,  leave  me  alone,"  she  retorted. 
"What  do  you  know  about  managing  a  lover? 
Can't  you  see  I  love  Tom  Menteith  so  much  that  it 
takes  all  that  is  in  me  to  make  him  believe  that  I 
don't?  Do  you  think  I  wanted  to  be  away  from 
him  to-day?  I  did  it  only  to  make  him  the  more 
keen.  He'll  be  here  again,  more  anxious  than  ever. 
Leave  me  alone.  Leave  him  to  me,  and — whatever 


182      The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

I  do  I  do  with  my  head  screwed  on  and  my  eyes 
wide  open?  Don't  you  forget  it.  Give  me  credit 
for  being  a  little  more  than  an  idiot. 

"But  there  is  one  thing  you  can  do.  Keep  Kathie 
hard  at  work  and  out  of  the  way,  for  if  Tom  Men- 
teith  sees  her  he  may  be  like  others  and  transfer  his 
fancy.  That  would  be  the  end  of  Jackson's  Ranch 
and  everything  else  connected  with  it.  But,  if  that 
ever  happens,"  she  added  bitterly,  "I'll  mark  her, 
so  that  she'll  never  attract  another." 

Lizbeth  went  up  to  her  room,  leaving  her  father 
scratching  his  head  in  perplexity,  as  many  another 
man  had  done  before  him  at  the  ways  of  women. 

But  Colin  Jackson  did  not  interfere  again.  He 
saw  that,  with  all  his  astuteness,  his  daughter  was 
more  than  his  equal  and  was  perfectly  able  to  con- 
duct her  own  love  affairs  without  any  outside  aid. 

When  next  young  Menteith  called,  he  was  astride 
a  sprightly  mare  and  he  held  the  reins  of  Jess  as  he 
waited  for  Lizbeth.  He  sprang  down  to  meet  her; 
he  helped  her  into  the  saddle,  mounted  again,  and 
they  cantered  gaily  away.  On  their  way  back,  they 
tethered  their  horses  on  the  outer  fringe  of  the 
wood.  He  assisted  her  over  the  stile.  As  she 
jumped  down,  her  wayward  curls  brushed  his  cheek. 
He  caught  the  sweetness  of  her  breath  and  the  lin- 
gering perfume  from  her  hair. 

That  was  the  day  he  tied  the  string  of  her  shoe : 
the  day  he  pressed  her  hand  against  his  lips :  the  day 


Off  With  the  Old,  On  With  the  New  183 

she  ran  from  him  and  he  followed  far  into  the  deep- 
est shade  of  the  firs:  when  he  caught  up  with  her, 
panting,  her  eyes  wide  and  her  bosom  straining  tight 
for  greater  freedom,  her  ivory-like  teeth  gleaming 
round  a  gurgling  laugh: — the  day  he  called  on  his 
God  and  caught  her  in  his  arms,  unresisting,  against 
his  breast,  with  his  lips  on  hers,  her  breath  min- 
gling with  his,  and  the  green  world  whirling  dizzily 
around  both  of  them. 


CHAPTER  TWELVE 
The  Vow 

LIZBETH  came  in  by  the  open  doorway,  her 
face  aglow  with  the  enjoyment  of  her  home- 
ward gallop.  She  threw  her  riding  switch  into  a 
corner,  sat  down  with  a  sigh  of  relief  and  started  to 
peel  off  Jier  gloves. 

"Where's  mother?"  she  asked. 

Her  father  looked  up  from  the  papers  which  lay 
spread  before  him  on  the  table. 

"You're  getting  out  of  touch  with  the  work  around 
here.  This  is  washing  day,  Lizbeth,  and  your 
mother  is  in  the  basement  among  the  wash-tubs." 

"That  means  she  won't  be  up  here  for  a  bit,"  re- 
marked Lizbeth. 

"That's  exactly  what  it  means,  lass." 

"Dad, — Tom  Menteith  has  asked  me  to  marry 
him." 

Colin  Jackson  jumped  up,  scattering  his  papers 
and  over-turning  his  chair  in  his  excitement. 

"Eh I— has  he?  Thank  the  Lord  for  that!"  he 
cried,  going  over  to  his  daughter  and  catching  hold 
of  her  hands.  "Eh,  Lizbeth,  but  you're  a  lass.  I 
knew  you  could  make  it.  I  knew  it  from  the  start. 

184 


The  Vow  185 

"Tell  your  old  father  all  about  it.  When  is  it 
going  to  be,  and  where,  and  everything  else?  This 
is  the  best  news  I've  heard  for  years.  Say  I  but  it'll 
create  a  stir  among  our  neighbours.  Colin  Jackson's 
daughter  a  lady  1  Think  of  it  I 

"Let  me  look  into  that  bonny  face  of  yours.  Yes  I 
— it's  just  perfect.  He  couldn't  help  but  fall  in  love 
with  it.  If  I  were  a  young  man  and  eligible,  I'd 
want  to  marry  you  myself.  Fine  I  knew  when  I 
laid  out  the  money  on  you  that  it  was  money  well 
spent.  Lizbeth,  you're  the  best  paying  investment 
I  ever  went  into. 

"Phew! — but  this  is  a  relief  though,"  he  went  on, 
mopping  his  brow  with  his  handkerchief.  "I  was 
just  wondering,  when  you  came  in,  what  new  lies  I 
could  invent  to  stall  off  these  damned,  persistent 
creditors  of  mine.  I  can  manage  them  now  all  right, 
all  right.  It  will  be  a  cheery  smile  and  open  defi- 
ance. You  know,  Lizbeth, — it  beats  all  how  the 
very  men  who  would  hound  you  to  death  at  the 
slightest  show  of  the  white  feather,  are  ready  to 
cringe,  and  smirk,  and  apologise  before  a  bold  front. 
I  feel  twenty  years  younger  already,  and  you're  the 
lass  that  has  worked  the  miracle." 

Lizbeth  watched  him  coldly  for  a  time,  almost 
enjoying  his  exhibition  of  unconcealed  delight. 

"Gee!  but  you're  running  fast,  dad,"  she  ex- 
claimed. "I  just  said  he  had  asked  me." 

Colin  Jackson  looked  at  her.    His  brows  wrinkled 


186      The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

in  perplexity,  then  they  cleared  again  and  he  laughed 
boisterously. 

"It  won't  do,  lass.  You  were  always  keen  on  a 
bit  of  fun,  but  you  can't  fool  your  old  father  this 
time.  I  see  it  in  your  face,  and  you're  happy  as  a 
jenny-wren  in  springtime." 

She  leaned  back  lazily  on  the  arm  of  the  couch. 

"Guess  I'm  not  fooling  this  time,  dad.  It  is  too 
serious  for  fooling.  I  haven't  accepted  Tom  Men- 
teith." 

"What?"  gasped  her  father.  "You  haven't  ac- 
cepted him?  Well,  the  idea!  You  had  better  go 
right  now  and  do  it  then.  When  did  you  become 
so  mighty  particular?  Have  you  gone  crazy  all  at 
once?" 

He  shook  her  roughly  by  the  shoulder. 

"Keep  your  hands  off  me,"  she  ordered.  "Go 
and  sit  down!" 

He  stood  for  a  second  dumfounded,  then  he 
obeyed  her  like  a  child.  His  nerves  were  more  than 
a  little  jangled  and  he  was  hardly  in  a  fit  condition 
to  stand  very  much  discussion.  "Don't  keep  me  on 
the  nettles,"  he  begged.  "I'm  not  feeling  too  good. 
But  I  fancy  I  see  your  reason,  Lizbeth ; — you  haven't 
accepted  Menteith,  but  you  haven't  said,  'No!' 
You're  just  thinking  it  over,  the  way  the  grand 
dames  do.  Quite  right,  too!  He'll  know  you  are 
not  sitting  waiting  for  him. 

"But  you'll  take  him  all  the  same,  Lizbeth — ehl" 


The  Vow  187 

he  went  on  rather  anxiously.  "You  could  tell  him 
to-morrow — or  maybe,  to-night. 

"Don't  wait  too  long.  He  might  change  his 
mind.  Independent  young  customers  like  him  do 
that  sometimes." 

"I  haven't  said,  'Yes!'  and  I  haven't  said,  'No!' 
But  unless  I  have  your  help,  dad,  my  answer  to  Tom 
Menteith  will  be  'No  I'  It  must  be  'No !'  Now  do 
you  get  me?" 

The  old  man  shook  his  head  vaguely. 

"There's  no  'getting'  you,  Lizbeth.  I've  tried 
that  for  twenty  years,  but  I've  never  managed  it 
yet." 

Lizbeth's  face  grew  suddenly  pale.  Her  bosom 
was  aflutter  in  suppressed  excitement,  and  her  eyes 
glistened  with  unshed  tears.  She  went  over  to  her 
father,  caught  hold  of  his  arm  and  whispered  a  few 
words  into  his  ear. 

"Guess  that's  speaking  plain  enough,"  she  ex- 
claimed. "Tell  me  now — what  am  I  to  do?  I 
want  Tom.  I  don't  want  to  give  him  up." 

Colin  Jackson  furrowed  his  brows  again.  But 
he  did  not  appear  altogether  displeased  at  what  he 
had  heard. 

"And  why  should  you  give  him  up  ?  Eh,  Lizbeth ! 
but  you're  a  sly  lass  to  trap  your  hare  and  then  to 
tie  it  up  in  case  it  might  run  away.  All  the  same, 
it's  taking  big  chances.  It  isn't  safe  taking  chances 
now-a-days  with  the,se  young  gentry.  But  don't 


i88      The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

fret  about  it,  lass,"  he  went  on,  with  a  wave  of  his 
hand  as  if  dismissing  care  forever.  "It's  past  now, 
and  it'll  be  all  right.  He's  different  from  other 
fellows.  He's  as  straight  a  lad  as  ever  trod  shoe- 
leather.  The  very  fact  that  he  asked  you  to  marry 
him  proves  that. 

"Lizbeth — take  an  old  man's  advice,"  he  contin- 
ued, patting  her  on  the  shoulder,  "give  him  your  an- 
swer at  once  and  get  married  as  soon  as  you  can. 
The  sooner  the  better  for  all  concerned !  Then  you 
two  can  go  somewhere  on  a  good  long  holiday,  and 
nobody  will  be  any  the  wiser.  Then  you  can  come 
back  and  snap  your  fingers  at  the  whole  community." 

"Oh,  for  goodness  sake  I  Stop  your  raving  or 
you'll  drive  me  silly,"  groaned  Lizbeth,  rising  and 
walking  across  the  room  in  her  excitement.  "You 
men  are  all  alike — dull  as  dust.  Do  you  think  I 
would  hold  back  a  minute  if  I  could  lay  this  at  Tom 
Menteith's  door?  He's  not  to  blame.  Can't  your 
slow  brain  guess  that  Crawford  is  the  responsible 
party, — Crawford,  he  and  no  other?  And  he  is 
in  Australia,  safe  away  from  all  trouble,  damn 
him  I"  she  panted  between  her  teeth. 

She  stood  clutching  the  edge  of  the  table  and 
watching  her  father,  who  seemed  to  have  shrivelled 
in  his  seat,  the  personification  of  stupid  despair.  He 
did  not  speak.  Only  gradually  did  the  poignancy  of 
the  real  situation  break  through  his  befogged  mind. 

"That's  right  1"  sneered  Lizbeth.    "Sit  there  and 


The  Vow  189 

nurse  your  anger.  Why  don't  you  say  something? 
Why  don't  you  do  something?  Anything  would  be 
better  than  that.  Do  you  think  I  am  made  of  granite 
and  can  stand  anything — everything?  I  know  it's 
a  muddle,  a  muddle  from  beginning  to  end — it's  all 
a  muddle,  and  I  wish  to  God  I  were  dead  or  a 
thousand  miles  away.  But  it's  too  late  now  for  wish- 
ing. You  bet  it  is.  And  we've  just  got  to  put  it 
through — see !  I've  been  planning  and  scheming  to 
find  a  way.  You're  a  man.  Why  don't  you  wake 
up  and  say  you'll  help  me?  Have  I  ever  failed  yet? 
Do  you  think  I'm  going  to  fail  now?  No,  siree! 
But  you've  got  to  help  me.  Do  you  hear?  You've 
got  to  rouse  yourself  and  help  me." 

Lizbeth's  talk  sounded  hysterical,  but,  neverthe- 
less, a  vigorous,  virile  fire  was  running  behind  it  and 
lending  it  life. 

"Don't  say  another  word  to  me,  you  shameless 
hussy,"  groaned  her  father,  his  head  between  his 
hands.  "To  think  that  a  daughter  of  mine  would 
land  herself  in  a  muddle  like  this — with  the  chance 
you  had,  too.  The  richest  and  handsomest  man  in 
the  Okanagan !  And  lost,  lost,  all  over  that  drunken, 
blackguardly,  ne'er-do-well.  Oh,  to  think  of  it — just 
to  think  of  it!" 

He  sprang  to  his  feet  suddenly  in  uncontrolled 
irritation. 

"So  this  is  the  end — is  it?"  he  stormed.  "I 
ruined,  the  ranch  let  over  our  heads,  you  disgraced, 


190      The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

and  all  of  us  hounded  out  of  the  district,  or  remain- 
ing in  it  to  be  sneered  and  jeered  at  by  every  com- 
mon-ordinary about  the  place — and  all  by  the  do- 
ings of  that  sneaking,  gambling  thief." 

He  raised  his  fists  over  Lizbeth's  head  in  a  burst 
of  passion.  "Get  out  of  my  sight,"  he  fumed,  "get 
out  before  I  strike  you  where  you  stand." 

Lizbeth  did  not  flinch  under  his  anger.  She  re- 
turned his  glare  for  a  moment,  then  she  laughed 
in  his  face  contemptuously. 

"Go  on!"  she  cried,  "and  in  another  minute  I'll 
take  you  at  your  word.  Guess  maybe  you  think  I'm 
not  sick  of  it — sick  and  tired  of  it — and  ready  to 
throw  it  up  for  two  pins?  If  you  do,  change  your 
mind. 

"I  have  a  plan  that  can  fix  all  this — a  plan  to 
marry  Tom  Menteith  and  so  pay  off  every  dollar 
you  owe  but  another  threat  from  you  and  you'll 
never  set  eyes  on  me  again.  Crawford  is  not  likely 
to  come  back  here,  but  there's  nothing  to  prevent  me 
going  to  Crawford.  He  wants  me.  He's  ready  to 
welcome  me  with  both  arms.  I  don't  want  to  go 
unless  I  have  to.  You  know  that  as  well  as  I  do. 
I  prefer  to  be  with  Tom  Menteith.  Life  with  Tom 
would  be  easier  for  me — a  deal  easier. 

"Are  you  going  to  help  me  with  my  plans?  Yes 
or  No  is  what  I  want  from  you.  For  months  I  have 
been  lying  awake  at  nights  scheming  and  plotting. 
Do  you  think  I  have  been  doing  this  for  no  end? 


The  Vow  191 

Not  if  I  know  it  I  Listen  to  me  I  I've  already  prom- 
ised to  marry  Tom  Menteith.  He  wishes  me  to  be 
ready  to  go  out  to  him  to  Ceylon  in  six  months' 
time.  He  would  leave  here  sometime  before  me 
in  order  to  get  a  house  built  for  us  to  his  liking  and 
to  prepare  for  my  coming.  He's  got  to  wait  ten 
months.  He'll  be  none  the  worse  for  the  waiting. 
All  the  same — a  careless  word  would  frighten  him 
away  like  a  scampering  squirrel.  He  mustn't  hear 
the  slightest  whisper  of  my  connection  with  this 
business. 

"Now — here's  the  plan,  and  you'd  better  agree 
to  it,  for  it's  your  last  chance: — You've  got  to  get 
someone  else  at  once  to  take  Kathie's  place  in  the 
dairy,  then  you  must  send  her  and  me  away  without 
delay  to  some  quiet  place  on  the  coast,  up  from 
Vancouver  a-ways.  The  farther  away  you  send 
us  the  better.  When  it  is  all  over  we  can  come  back 
again.  Kathie  can  play  nurse.  That  will  leave  me 
free.  Savvy?" 

Her  father  looked  at  her  stupidly. 

"Do  you  think  young  Menteith  will  have  you  with 
another  man's  youngster  tagging  at  your  heels?"  he 
asked. 

"No,  I'm  not  so  foolish  as  to  think  that.  And 
that's  where  you  come  in.  Can't  you  see  that  when 
we're  away  Tom  will  be  inquiring  for  me.  You 
must  tell  him  that  I  have  gone  to  nurse  Kathie  and 
that  he  must  not  go  for  good  until  I  return.  Oh, — 


192      The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

I'll  blaze  the  trail  before  I  go.  I  know  where  I 
stand  with  him.  I  have  him  where  I  want  him  and 
you  needn't  be  scared  that  he  won't  wait. 

"You've  got  to  get  Kathie  to  agree  to  act  as 
nurse  to  the  child,  and  if  necessary  get  her  to  swear 
that  she  will  not  mention  to  a  living  soul  who  its 
father  and  mother  are  until — until  I  am  safely  mar- 
ried away  in  Ceylon,  or  until  you  give  her  permis- 
sion. How  you  are  going  to  manage  her  is  your 
affair.  But  it  has  to  be  done.  Tell  her  of  the  ruin 
that  is  hanging  over  us.  Impress  it  upon  her  as  a 
duty.  Let  her  know  what  it  will  mean  if  she  doesn't 
help  out  now.  Tell  her  anything.  Promise  her 
anything.  Coax  her;  threaten  her; — only  get  her 
into  it.  After  she's  in,  it'll  be  easy  to  keep  her 
there. 

"It  is  a  simple  matter  to  get  gossip  going.  A 
word  here  and  there  is  all  that  is  necessary.  There 
are  lots  of  women,  and  men  too,  in  this  Valley  just 
gasping  to  carry  a  tale,  especially  if  there's  a  flavour 
to  it.  And  why,  I  should  like  to  know,  couldn't  it 
be  she  as  well  as  I? 

"Now,  dad — this  is  all  for  yourself,  remember. 
You  are  not  doing  it  for  me.  And,  if  you  fail  with 
Kathie,  I  shall  still  be  free,  for  I'll  beat  it  to  Craw- 
ford." 

"My  God,  Lizbeth — I  believe  you  are  in  league 
with  the  devil.  I  can't  do  this — I  won't  do  it. 
Kathie  is  only  a  child  herself — and  a  better  one 


The  Vow  193 

than  ever  you  have  been.  I  would  sooner  let  every- 
thing go,"  he  answered  with  a  spark  of  his  old 
determination. 

"All  right,  dad  I     That  ends  it.     I'm  going  to 
Australia   on   Saturday's   boat   sailing   from   Van- 


couver." 


Colin  Jackson  immediately  began  to  relent. 
"Wait  a  bit,  Lizbeth — wait  a  bit.     Give  an  old 
man  time  to  think.     You  go  along  too   fast  for 


me." 


"Oh,  I  have  no  patience  with  you.  Haven't  I 
told  you  that  it  need  only  be  for  a  time.  After  I 
am  safely  married,  Tom  will  do  as  I  want. 

"Now,  think  of  yourself  for  a  moment.  Think 
what  my  marriage  with  Tom  will  mean  to  you: — 
freedom  from  debt,  freedom  from  worry;  inde- 
pendence. And  for  me — it  will  mean  Tom  Men- 
teith  and  respectability,  instead  of  nobody  and  dis- 
grace," she  contended  cunningly. 

"No!"  he  complained.  "A  secret  like  that  is 
sure  to  come  out  somehow.  Some  busybody  will 
get  wind  of  it.  Kathie  might  tell  it  herself.  She 
might  run  off  at  my  first  suggestion  of  it." 

"Oh,  no  she  won't!  Not  if  you  go  about  it  in 
the  right  way.  Only  tell  her  what  will  be  good  for 
her  to  know.  And  later  on,  if  it  should  so  happen 
that  I  am  unable  to  persuade  Tom  to  take  the  child 
under  his  protection — what  would  there  be  to  pre- 
vent Kathie  keeping  it  as  if  it  were  her  own?  She 


194      The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

has  no  friends  here  to  whom  she  could  go ;  and  you 
know  as  well  as  I  do  that  she  will  do  anything  under 
the  sun  if  she  thinks  it  is  a  duty.  And  after  all, 
she's  nothing  to  us.  Can't  you  see  how  this  would 
all  work  out  to  your  advantage?  Simpson  would 
have  nothing  more  to  do  with  her.  No  one  else 
would  want  her  to  work  for  him.  You  would  have 
a  good,  cheap  servant  on  the  ranch  as  long  as  she 
lived.  It  takes  a  man,  dad,  to  be  blind  to  his  own 
interests." 

Jackson  stopped  his  impatient  walking  across  the 
floor  and  Lizbeth  read  from  his  face  that  she  had 
gained  the  victory.  She  exulted  inwardly.  Her 
father  looked  into  her  eyes. 

"You  she-devil,"  he  cried,  half  in  passion  and 
half  in  admiration,  "to  think  that  I  could  have 
fathered  your  like  1  I'm  going  to  try  this  though — 
and  if  I  fail  blame  yourself.  Yes, — I'll  try  it.  It's 
for  me  and  mine,  and  I  and  mine  come  first." 

Lizbeth  laughed,  but  it  was  a  laugh  of  relief 
more  than  of  merriment. 

"I  am  going  upstairs  now,"  she  said.  "Kathie 
should  be  in  soon.  You  and  she  will  be  better  alone 
for  a  while." 

Her  skirts  had  hardly  disappeared  round  the  turn 
of  the  stairway  when  Kathie  stepped  in,  humming 
good-naturedly  and  bringing  with  her  the  sugges- 
tion of  rich  cream,  new  butter  and  young  clover. 
Her  eyes  were  radiant  and  she  portrayed  the  pliant 


The  Vow  195 

embodiment  of  health  as  she  raised  her  shapely, 
bared  arm  to  her  head  in  an  endeavour  to  gather 
up  the  rebellious  strands  of  her  hair,  scented  and 
blown  awry  by  the  warm,  fragrant  breeze  of  that 
midsummer's  day. 

She  filled  the  kettle,  cleared  aside  her  uncle's 
papers  and  spread  the  table  cloth  for  the  evening 
meal,  for  she  knew  her  aunt  would  be  worn  out 
after  her  hard  day  over  the  wash  tub;  and  Wong, 
the  Chinaman,  was  off  burying  one  of  his  numerous 
cousins. 

Colin  Jackson  watched  her  narrowly,  admiring1 
the  quiet  deftness  with  which  she  went  about  her 
work  and  almost  sorrowing  that  such  a  splendid 
creature  would  have  to  be  sacrificed  on  his  family 
altar.  Sentiment,  however,  was  an  emotion  some- 
what foreign  to  Jackson  and  he  dismissed  it  sum- 
marily. 

"Kathie!" 

"Yes,  uncle  I" 

"Come  and  sit  down  beside  me  for  a  minute.  I 
have  something  of  importance  to  tell  you." 

Kathie  obeyed,  looking  into  her  uncle's  face  in 
perfect  frankness. 

"Things  have  been  in  a  pretty  bad  way  here, 
Kathie,  and  they  don't  seem  to  be  mending  any.  I 
am  pressed  on  every  side  by  debt  and  I  don't  know 
where  next  to  turn.  I  sold  the  Percheron  stallion 


196      The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

some  time  ago  and  since  that  I  have  sold  a  number 
of  the  cows." 

"Yes,  uncle — I  know,  and  I  am  very,  very  sorry. 
We  girls  arc  poor  helpless  things  at  that  part  of 
ranch  work.  It  must  be  the  most  harassing  of  all 
to  do  the  financing.  I  only  wish  I  could  help  you. 
If  I  can  do  anything  by  getting  up  earlier  in  the 
morning  I  shall  gladly  do  it,  for  you  are  my  uncle 
and  my  nearest  living  relative.  You  gave  me  a 
home  when  I  had  nowhere  to  go.  I  have  grown 
strong  and  healthy  since  I  came  out  here.  I  can 
never  forget  these  things. 

"Lately  I  have  noticed  your  hair  turning  grey.  I 
have  watched  the  wrinkles  gather  in  your  face  and 
the  alert  look  fade  from  your  eyes,  and  I  have  wor- 
ried at  these  signs.  Unfortunately,  I  am  a  girl  and 
I  can  do  only  a  very  little  to  help  in  such  a  dilemma." 

She  put  her  hand  over  his,  and  her  sympathy 
awoke  within  him  a  mighty  surge  of  self-pity  which 
filled  and  almost  overwhelmed  him. 

"You  are  right,  Kathie.  As  long  as  I  can  remem- 
ber, I  have  always  been  the  willing  horse  that  bore 
the  load.  I  have  had  to  bear  the  burden  of  others, 
too.  But  it  cannot  be  much  longer  now,"  he  sighed. 
"In  a  few  months  we  shall  be  auctioned  off,  bag  and 
baggage,  out  of  house  and  home.  You  shall  have 
to  go  your  way  then,  lass,  and  we  shall  have  to  go 
ours.  For  me,  it  will  be  down  the  hill  and  under, 
for  I  am  too  old  now  to  start  over  again." 


The  Vow  197 

He  dropped  his  head  on  his  chest. 

"I  didn't  think  it  would  come  to  this  after  all 
these  years  of  hard  work  both  here  and  in  the 
Old  Land,"  he  added.  "I  didn't  deserve  it." 

Tears  welled  in  Kathie's  eyes. 

"Oh !  I  wish  I  could  help  you,  uncle.  Is  there  any- 
thing that  can  be  done?  Surely — surely  there  is 
some  way?" 

Her  uncle  looked  up. 

"Kathie,  would  you  help  me  if  you  thought  by  so 
doing  it  would  put  everything  right?" 

"Would  I?  Would  I?  Oh,  uncle,"  she  answered 
sincerely,  "you  know  that  I  would.  I  would  do 
anything — everything — that  I  possibly  could  do. 
But — I  don't  know  how.  If  you  do— tell  me." 

"It  is  surprising  what  a  girl  of  your  good  sense 
can  do.  There  is  one  way  out,  but  I  shall  never 
find  it  without  your  aid." 

"Tell  me  the  way,  then,"  she  cried  enthusiastically, 
"and  I'll  do  it  if  I  die." 

"Well — first  and  foremost,  young  Tom  Men- 
teith  wants  to  marry  Lizbeth.  When  he  does  marry 
her,  all  our  troubles  will  be  over,  for  Lizbeth  has 
promised  to  see  them  right — and  so  has  he,"  he 
added  as  an  afterthought. 

Kathie  sat  in  silence,  wondering  where  her  as- 
sistance was  to  be  required. 

"Unfortunately,  Lizbeth  and  he  have  been  a  bit 


198      The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

too  fond  of  each  other,"  he  went  on  slyly,  "and  the 
result  is,  Lizbeth  is  in  trouble." 

Kathie's  face  paled  and  her  eyes  grew  large. 

"I  always  thought  that  Mr.  Menteith  was  a  gen- 
tleman," she  said  simply. 

"Tuts! — and  so  he  is — one  of  the  best.  But  he 
is  young  and  just  a  little  bit  rash  at  times.  And,  of 
course,  he  isn't  altogether  to  blame.  Lizbeth  is  as 
much  at  fault  as  he  is.  It  has  just  been  a  little  bit 
of  foolishness  on  the  part  of  both.  It  is  a  great 
pity,  all  the  same,"  pursued  her  uncle,  wagging  his 
head.  "Old  David  Menteith  would  be  in  a  great 
way  about  it  if  he  knew.  Tom  has  got  his  father 
to  agree  to  their  marriage,  but  this  new  phase  would 
certainly  be  the  means  of  putting  an  end  to  it.  Tom 
feels  that  his  father  must  be  kept  in  the  dark  re- 
garding their — their  impetuosity,  until  after  they 
are  nicely  settled  down  in  Ceylon.  Then,  of  course, 
Menteith  senior  can  fret  and  fume  as  much  as  he 
likes — it  won't  make  any  difference. 

"Now,  Kathie — you  have  promised  to  help  us. 
It  is  only  a  little  thing  we  want  you  to  do,  but  it 
means  a  great  deal  to  us.  I  was  thinking  of  sending 
you  and  Lizbeth  to  some  quiet  little  town  or  settle- 
ment up  the  Coast  from  Vancouver.  You  could  look 
after  Lizbeth  and  nurse  her.  It  would  be  a  grand 
change  for  both  of  you. 

"Then  we  were  thinking  that  when  you  came 
back  you  could  take  charge  of  the  baby,  just  until 


The  Vow  199 

Lizbeth  and  Tom  are  away  and  married.  It  could 
follow  them  later  in  charge  of  a  competent  nurse. 

"I'll  get  someone  else  to  do  the  dairy  work  and 
you  will  be  free  to  give  it  all  your  attention.  Do 
you  see  the  idea?" 

"Yes,  uncle, — I  see  it,  but,  but  I  can't  say  I  like 
it  at  all,"  said  Kathie.  "It  seems  so  mean  and  so 
deceitful  to  that  straight,  high-minded,  honourable 
old  gentleman,  not  to  tell  him.  Why  does  not  Tom 
Menteith  be  a  man,  make  a  clean  breast  of  it  now 
and  save  a  hundred  heart-burnings  later  on?" 

"It  wouldn't  do  at  all,"  declared  her  uncle  with 
emphasis.  "You  must  give  us  credit  for  having 
thought  of  all  that  already.  You  know  the  repu- 
tation David  Menteith  has  and  the  stand  he  takes  in 
all  matters  of  this  kind.  You  know  how  unforgiving 
he  can  be.  All  he  would  do  would  be  to  bundle  Tom 
off  right  away  to  Ceylon,  and  settle  some  small  al- 
lowance on  Lizbeth.  And  what  good,  think  you, 
would  that  do  us?  There's  Lizbeth  to  think  of, 
there's  the  poor  innocent  child  to  think  of.  It  would 
be  nameless  to  the  end  of  its  days. 

"When  they  are  married,  the  old  fellow  cannot 
play  any  such  tricks.  He  will  have  to  come  to  the 
mark  and  be  forgiving  and  generous.  They  all  do 
it  finally.  They  have  to,  to  save  their  name." 

"Oh — you  must  not  think  I  do  not  want  to  help, 
uncle,"  she  interposed,  clutching  her  fingers  nervous- 
ly, "but  there  seem  to  be  so  many  different  outlets 


200      The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

to  this  thing,  and  I  do  hate  the  very  thought  of  it. 
Would  it  not  be  better  and  cheaper  to  give  the  child 
out  to  someone  else  to  nurse?  There  are  lots  of 
kindly,  motherly  women  in  Vernock  who  would  be 
glad  of  the  chance  to  earn  a  little.  And  I  am  sure 
I  can  be  of  far  more  use  to  you  in  the  dairy  and 
around  the  ranch,  especially  if  Lizbeth  is  not  to  be 
helping  any  more  and  is  going  away  soon." 

"Kathie — you  seem  to  understand  neither  your 
own  sex  nor  the  gentry.  If  you  were  a  mother, 
would  you  like  your  child  to  be  sleeping  under  a 
strange  roof  at  nights?  Do  you  think  young  Men- 
teith  would  allow  it  to  be  farmed  out  where  there 
would  be  the  slightest  chance  of  anything  going 
wrong?  It  has  to  be  properly  nursed  and  well 
looked  after  in  every  way,  and  in  the  safekeeping 
of  relatives.  That  can  only  be  done  here.  We 
cannot  take  any  neighbours  into  our  confidence  be- 
cause it  would  set  up  a  nest  of  gossip.  The  fewer 
people  who  get  their  eyes  on  the  babe,  the  better  for 
our  plans. 

"Now,  Kathie,  are  you  or  are  you  not  going  to 
take  on  this  simple  little  duty?  It  is  not  a  question 
for  argument?  If  you  are  not,  it  means  the  end 
of  everything  for  us." 

"Oh,  don't  put  it  that  way,  uncle,"  she  interposed 
in  deep  concern.  "You  know  I'll  do  it.  I  promised 
to  do  anything  I  could.  I'll  do  this,  much  as  I  dis- 
like it." 


The  Vow  201 

"There,  there,  girlie, — I  knew  you  would,"  he 
said,  patting  her  on  the  shoulder,  surprised  and  de- 
lighted at  the  slight  opposition  he  had  experienced 
to  his  proposals.  "It  is  only  a  little  thing  I  am  ask- 
ing of  you,  but  you  are  the  only  one  who  can  do  it 
properly.  Besides,  it  is  Tom  Menteith's  express  de- 
sire that  you  should  do  this  for  him,  although  he  is 
not  likely,  personally,  ever  to  mention  this  to  you 
in  any  way. 

"But,  mind  you,  it  is  a  serious  business  and  the 
slightest  word  or  suggestion  from  you  would  utterly 
ruin  everything.  You  must  not  open  your  mouth 
about  it — not  to  your  dearest  friend." 

He  let  the  words  sink  in,  as  Kathie  busied  herself 
about  the  kitchen. 

"Kathie,  you  might  bring  me  that  book  that  is 
lying  at  the  back  of  the  dresser,"  he  said,  breaking 
the  silence  suddenly. 

"Which  one,"  she  asked,  "the  ready-reckoner?" 

"No !    The  one  below  it— the  Bible." 

Kathie  brought  the  Book  to  him  with  a  look  of 
surprise.  As  he  took  it  from  her  he  held  her  hand 
on  it  with  both  his  own,  looking  at  her  in  a  man- 
ner that  was  intended  to  be  reassuring. 

"You  must  not  think  that  I  mistrust  you,  my  dear, 
but  we've  got  to  be  so  careful.  I  have  let  you  into 
a  great  secret,  so  I  wish  you  to  swear  that  you  will 
keep  it  a  secret.  It  is  just  a  kind  of  form,  but  it 
helps  to  impress  the  memory." 


202      The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

Kathie  shrank  away. 

"Oh,  no,  no!"  she  cried  hurriedly,  "not  that." 

"Don't  be  silly,  woman,"  retorted  her  uncle, 
smiling  grimly.  "Lizbeth  and  I  have  done  it,  so 
surely  you  can." 

It  was  a  brazen  lie,  but  it  carried  the  additional 
weight  he  had  intended  it  should. 

"Oh,  please  don't  ask  me  to  swear  on  the  Bible. 
I  have  never  done  that — and  it  seems  so  much  like 
a  sacrilege.  Surely  you  can  take  my  word  for  it?" 
she  pleaded.  "I  have  always  kept  my  word  without 
force  and  I  give  it  now  to  you,  without  reserve." 

"I  don't  doubt  you  a  bit,  Kathie,  but  temptations 
come  sometimes  to  all  of  us  and,  anyway,  if  you  are 
so  sure  about  keeping  your  word,  you  needn't  be 
afraid  that  harm  will  come  to  you  by  swearing  to 
it.  It  is  only  those  who  are  not  sure  of  themselves 
who  are  alarmed  at  an  oath.  Why,  it  is  done  every 
day  in  the  Courthouse,  and  it  is  a  grand  thing,  too — 
one  of  the  sensible  things  a  Bible  can  be  used  for." 

Kathie's  resistance  crumbled  away.  After  all,  it 
did  not  really  make  very  much  difference  to  her.  A 
promise  was  a  promise,  whether  given  lightly  or  on 
oath. 

"Hurry,  then — please,"  she  protested,  "and  let 
me  back  into  the  open  air  for  a  few  minutes." 

"Don't  be  nervous,  Kathie.  It  is  only  a  trifle. 
You  are  a  good  lass,  and  your  uncle  won't  forget  it 
either." 


The  Vow  203 

Jackson  was  more  than  elated  at  the  success  of 
his  eleventh  hour  scheme,  Into  which  he  now  entered 
heart  and  soul. 

"Just  put  your  hand  on  the  Book  again,  and  re- 
peat after  me,"  he  said  solemnly,  imitating,  as  well 

as  he  knew  how,  the  Court  Official  whom  he  had 

t 

heard  on  more  than  one  occasion. 

"I  swear — that  until  I  am  released  from  this  vow 
by  my  uncle — Colin  Jackson — or  until  my  cousin, 
Elizabeth  Jackson  is  married — I  will  not  divulge  to 
anyone — what  I  know  regarding  the  parentage  of 
Elizabeth's  child. — So  help  me,  God." 

Slowly  and  mechanically,  as  if  heart  weary,  with 
dry  lips  and  staring  eyes,  Kathie  repeated  the 
formula  after  her  uncle;  and  when  the  last  solemn 
clause  was  ended  she  dropped  into  a  chair  and  threw 
her  arms  on  the  table  before  her,  sobbing  unre- 
strained. 


CHAPTER  THIRTEEN 
The  Canker  of  Doubt 

GOOD  morning,  Mr.  Jackson!  I  should  like 
to  speak  with  Elizabeth  if  she  is  disen- 
gaged. I  thought  she  and  I  might  take  a  ride  over 
to  Grange  Ranch.  I  have  some  business  to  do  there 
for  the  dad  and  I  hate  to  go  alone  when  there  is 
the  chance  that  Elizabeth  might  come  with  me,"  re- 
marked young  Menteith,  accosting  the  rancher  on 
the  Avenue  leading  from  the  house  to  the  main 
road. 

"Morning,  Mr.  Tom.  But  I  guess  you'll  have  to 
go  alone  to-day.  We've  had  rather  a  trying  time 
here  lately — a  bad  business.  Didn't  Lizbeth  men- 
tion it  to  you?" 

"Mention  what,  Mr.  Jackson?"  asked  Tom  Men- 
teith, a  little  perplexed. 

"Oh,  I  thought  maybe  she  had  said  something  to 
you  about  it.  But  it  being  a  delicate  subject  no 
doubt  she  didn't  like  to  approach  it. 

"You  see,  it's  like  this: — there's  a  girl  I  have 
working  in  the  dairy — you  may  have  noticed  her. 
She's  a  far-out  relative  of  mine.  All  her  people 
are  dead.  I  brought  her  out  from  Ireland  and  made 

204 


The  Canker  of  Doubt          205 

a  home  for  her  here.  Well,  you  know  how  it  always 
goes  when  a  man  tries  to  do  a  good  turn.  She's  gone 
and  got  herself  into  trouble  with  some  lad  about  the 
district,  and  I  have  had  to  send  her  away  until  it's 
all  over." 

"Well,  well !  That's  too  bad,"  sympathised  Men- 
teith.  "Now  I  come  to  think  of  it,  Elizabeth  did  say 
something  or  other  about  it,  but  I  did  not  give  it 
much  thought." 

"Well,  Tom,  If  I  had  had  my  way  I  would  have 
turned  the  baggage  out  neck  and  crop,  but  Lizbeth 
has  quite  a  fancy  for  the  girl,  besides  being  naturally 
soft-hearted  and  generous ;  so  she  would  not  hear  of 
such  a  thing.  Instead,  she  insisted  on  going  away 
with  the  girl  to  the  Coast  and  up  to  some  quiet  little 
settlement  where  she  could  nurse  her  until  it  was  all 
over.  It  is  going  to  be  an  expensive  business  for  me, 
Tom,  but  then  I  didn't  feel  like  trying  to  crush  out 
the  charitable  feelings  that  seem  always  to  be  part 
of  my  Lizbeth's  very  nature,  so  I  just  let  her  have 
her  way,  knowing  you  would  soon  be  taking  her 
away  from  me.  She  left  with  the  girl  on  yesterday's 
train.  She  gave  me  a  note  for  you  and  she  says  that 
when  you  read  it  you  will  know  she  is  doing  her 
duty,  and  that  you  will  be  willing  to  wait  patiently 
for  her  for  a  few  months. 

"If  you  have  time  to  come  up  to  the  house  for  a 
few  minutes,  I'll  let  you  have  the  letter." 

Tom    Menteith    followed   the    rancher   up   the 


206      The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

Avenue  and  into  the  house.  He  did  not  seem  very 
well  pleased  at  the  sudden  stoppage  of  the  pleasant 
times  he  had  been  having  of  late  and  he  was  in- 
clined to  blame  his  sweetheart  for  impetuosity  and 
lack  of  consideration  for  him;  but,  as  he  read  Liz- 
beth's  letter  through,  his  face  cleared,  he  pressed 
the  paper  to  his  lips  and  put  it  into  his  breast  pocket. 

"It  is  all  right,  Mr.  Jackson,"  he  said  more  cheer- 
fully. "Liz  is  the  dearest,  most  kind-hearted  woman 
in  the  world,  and  I'll  wait  as  many  years  as  she  asks 
months,  if  she  says  so — only  I  hope  she  won't  say 
so. 

"I  have  an  invitation  to  Los  Angeles  and  'Frisco, 
to  spend  the  winter  there  with  some  old  friends, 
so  I  shall  take  advantage  of  it  until  Liz  gets  back. 
Then  I  can  shoot  out  to  Ceylon  and  pave  the  way 
for  her.  But  I  won't  go  until  I  see  her  again  on 
this  side;  we  have  so  many  things  to  talk  over  and 
so  many  plans  to  make.  I  have  no  doubt  the  dad 
will  chafe  at  my  delay  in  getting  back  to  the  planta- 
tions, but  he'll  just  have  to  chafe  till  I'm  ready,  or 
go  himself.  It  isn't  every  year  that  I  get  a  holi- 
day." 

As  young  Menteith  went  down  the  road,  Colin 
Jackson  rubbed  his  hands  and  chuckled. 

"That  girl  of  mine  is  a  perfect  genius,"  he  solilo- 
quised. "If  she  had  been  a  man  she  would  have 
been  another  Napoleon.  But  it's  maybe  just  as  well 
for  me,"  he  reflected,  "that  she's  only  a  woman. 


The  Canker  of  Doubt          207 

"Well — I  guess  it's  about  time  now  that  I  was 
setting  the  news  quietly  around,  here  and  there, 
where  it  will  have  the  best  effect  and  the  widest 
circulation." 

He  told  it  casually  to  the  ne'er-do-well  son  of  a 
neighbouring  rancher.  He  mentioned  it,  in  an  off- 
hand way,  to  the  woman  who  kept  the  little  candy 
store  at  the  corner  of  Orchard  Street  in  Vernock. 

The  minister's  wife  missed  Lizbeth  from  her  usual 
pew  in  church  and  called  down  one  afternoon  to  in- 
quire about  it.  Colin  Jackson  sent  her  off  in  a  per- 
fect buzz  of  excitement,  tingling  from  head  to  heels 
in  the  enjoyment  of  the  tit-bit  she  had  received 
straight  from  the  baker's  oven,  as  it  were,  and 
bursting  to  unburden  herself  upon  the  first  member 
of  the  Ladies'  Guild  whom  she  might  happen  to  en- 
counter. 

And  it  was  almost  common  property  before  it 
reached  the  ears  of  him  who  was  most  concerned. 
He  had  it  thrown  to  him  by  his  landlady  when  she 
was  serving  the  dinner  on  the  afternoon  of  his  usual 
walk  to  meet  Kathie  down  by  the  Lake. 

"That's  sure  some  business  up  there  at  the  Ranch, 
Mr.  Simpson,"  she  remarked  by  way  of  introduction, 
adjusting  her  hair  and  clasping  her  hands  in  front 
of  her  under  her  apron. 

Alick  Simpson  looked  up  in  mild  inquiry. 

"What! — you  didn't  hear  about  it?  For  the  Land 
Sakes!"  she  commented.  "One  hardly  knows  what 


208      The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

the  world  is  coming  to  now-a-days,  especially  among 
the  young  folks.  You  that's  a  school  principal  will 
know  that — indeed  you  will.  And  to  think  that  the 
hussy  would  keep  her  head  so  high  in  the  air  and 
never  speak  to  a  soul,  as  if  she  was  a  cut  above  the 
rest  of  us.  But  it's  just  what  I've  always  said."  She 
bent  over  the  table  confidentially.  "The  quiet  ones 
are  always  the  worst,  Mr.  Simpson — they  are  in- 
deed. You  bet  they  are. 

"If  you  will  take  the  advice  of  a  woman  up  in 
years,  you  will  marry  a  cheery,  free-and-easy 
woman,  for  'Still  waters  run  deep,'  Mr.  Simpson. 
You  bet  they  do." 

How  long  she  would  have  rattled  on  in  this  strain 
it  is  hard  to  tell,  but  Alick  Simpson  interrupted  the 
flow. 

"You  forget,  Mrs.  Halford,  I  am  quite  in  the 
dark  as  to  what  all  this  refers." 

"Oh,  didn't  I  tell  you?  I  completely  forgot. 
You'll  excuse  me — but  it  is  such  a  disgrace  to  the 
neighbourhood,  and  it's  enough  to  make  any  respect- 
able woman  ashamed  of  her  sex,  let  alone  keep  in 
mind  what  she  says  and  what  she  doesn't  say,  and 
what  she  intends  to  say." 

"I  quite  agree  with  you,"  put  in  the  teacher  drily. 

"Well,  well,  Mr.  Simpson — it  is  that  black- 
haired,  mealy-mouthed  girl  at  Jackson's.  She's  been 
carrying  on  with  some  of  the  young  fellows  and 
they're  expecting  " 


The  Canker  of  Doubt          209 

The  school  teacher  rose  unsteadily  from  the  table, 
pale  to  the  lips.  He  held  up  his  hands  before  his 
astonished  landlady. 

"Don't  you  dare  finish  that  sentence,"  he  com- 
manded fiercely.  "It  is  a  lie — a  damned,  slander- 
ous lie." 

Mrs.  Halford  gasped  in  astonishment  and  wrung 
her  hands. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Simpson, — Mr.  Simpson, — I — I  am 
sure  I  wouldn't  have  mentioned  it  at  all — only — 
only  you  seemed  to  encourage  me  to  go  on? 

"All  the  same,"  she  continued,  a  little  belligerent- 
ly, "there  seems  to  be  truth  in  it,  for  I  got  it  from 
Mrs.  Gordon,  my  next  door  neighbour — a  very  re- 
spectable person — and  she  got  it  from  her  milk- 
man the  day  before  yesterday." 

Alick  Simpson  could  not  trust  himself  to  speak. 
He  walked  to  the  door  and  pointed  downstairs  with 
no  uncertain  gesture.  Mrs.  Halford  marched  out, 
indignant. 

"Shown  out  of  my  own  rooms,  indeed!  If  that 
doesn't  beat  all,"  she  exclaimed,  as  the  door  closed 
behind  her  and  the  handle  turned  sharply,  throwing 
the  lock  securely  into  the  socket. 

Simpson  fancied  that  in  closing  the  door  on  his 
scandal-mongering  landlady  he  had  secured  himself 
against  her  gossip,  but  she  left  something  with  him 
of  which  he  could  not  rid  himself  so  easily. 

In  a  few  minutes  he  hurried  out,  leaving  his  din- 


210      The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

ner  untouched.  The  fresh  air  and  the  sunshine, 
however,  brought  with  them  a  reaction.  His  mor- 
bid thoughts  took  flight,  and  soon  he  was  laughing 
at  his  foolishness  in  having  allowed  such  idle  prat- 
tlings  to  influence  him  in  the  slightest  way  in  regard 
to  the  pure,  sweet  girl  who,  some  day,  would  be  his 
wife. 

In  fancy,  but  in  all  humbleness,  he  bent  before  her 
and  offered  to  her  his  deepest  apologies. 

He  took  out  his  watch.  It  still  wanted  an  hour 
and  a  half  to  the  time  of  his  appointed  meeting 
with  Kathie.  He  went  back  to  his  rooms  at  Mrs. 
Halford's  and  ate  his  dinner.  He  then  dressed  him- 
self in  his  gayest  attire,  pinned  a  flower  into  his  but- 
ton-hole and  strolled  out  leisurely,  swinging  his 
cane  and  whistling  "The  Soldiers'  Chorus,"  from 
William  Tell;  much  to  the  bewilderment  of  the 
goodly  Mrs.  Halford,  who  was  watching  him  covert- 
ly from  behind  the  drawn  curtains. 

He  reached  the  quiet  of  the  trees  by  the  Lake, 
and  there  he  waited  long  and  patiently.  But  Kathie 
did  not  come. 

Only  once  had  she  disappointed  him  before  and 
that  was  the  time  of  her  accident  in  the  snow. 

He  tried  to  put  away  all  thought  of  ill,  but  always 
the  question  kept  arising  within  him : — why  did  she 
not  come? — why  did  she  not  come? 

An  hour  flew  by,  but  still  he  walked  forward  and 
backward,  loth  to  leave  without  some  sign:  some 


The  Canker  of  Doubt          21 1 

word  from  her  In  explanation.  Back  again  to  him 
came  the  gossip  of  the  landlady. 

"God!"  he  thought,  "what  if  there  be  some  truth 
in  it?" 

The  rush  of  the  idea  of  such  a  terrible  possibility 
sent  a  stab  through  him  which  made  him  gasp.  He 
could  hear  distinctly  the  uneven  beating  of  his  throb- 
bing heart,  going  faster  and  faster  as  it  called  up  his 
reserve  forces  to  its  aid,  then  gradually  slowing 
down  again  as  his  mind  grasped  at  the  hope  that  the 
alarm  was  a  false  one — leaving  him  limp,  and  cold, 
and  unsatisfied. 

The  gaunt  skeleton  was  grinning  in  the  dark  cor- 
ners of  his  brain  cells.  And  this  time  all  the  ex- 
hilaration of  the  sunshine  and  the  open  air  were 
unavailing  to  dispel  it.  He  conjured  up  a  thousand 
forms  and  fancies  from  this  one,  prolific,  spectral 
thought;  forms  and  fancies  of  which  he  would  have 
blushed  to  think  only  a  few  short  hours  before; 
spuming,  bastard  conjectures  which  for  the  moment 
crowded  out  all  good,  tore  his  idol  from  the  pedes- 
tal upon  which  he  had  placed  her  and  shattered  his 
dreams. 

He  laughed  again,  but  his  laugh  failed  to  ring 
true.  It  was  tainted  with  some  of  the  poison  which 
was  working  silently  and  surely  within  him. 

He  looked  at  the  old,  weather-worn  log,  upon 
which  Kathie  and  he  had  so  often  sat  together.  He 
beat  his  fist  upon  it  until  the  skin  peeled  away  from 


212      The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

his  knuckles.  It  was  then  that  he  saw  the  flash  of  a 
scrap  of  white  paper  which  seemed  to  have  been 
inserted  into  a  crack  under  the  broken  bark.  He 
pulled  it  out.  It  was  a  note  hastily  scrawled  and 
containing  only  a  few  words,  but  words  enough  sure- 
ly to  recall  a  strong  man  to  himself  and  to  the 
duty  he  owed  to  himself  and  to  the  woman  he  pro- 
fessed to  love.  He  read  them  over: — 

"Alick — I  have  to  go  away.  Bear  with  me  yet 
a  little  while.  Kathie." 

A  mist  came  over  his  eyes.  He  threw  himself  on 
the  ground.  He  wrestled  long  with  the  evil  thoughts 
that  had  possessed  him,  and  in  the  end  he  was  vic- 
torious. 

He  rose,  taking  the  trail  to  the  edge  of  the  Lake, 
then  over  the  hill  to  the  wood,  through  the  grassy 
pathway  there,  and  straight  on  to  the  house  of  his 
old  friends  at  Broadacres. 

The  kindly,  motherly  old  lady  met  him  at  the 
door. 

"Alick,  my  dear  boy!  Come  right  in.  We  have 
missed  you  lately.  Allan  has  been  looking  for  you 
every  day  and  wondering  where  you  have  been  hid- 
ing yourself,"  she  greeted  warmly.  "Allan  is  over 
at  Doctor  Orr's  just  now,  but  you  shall  stay  a  while 
with  me." 

She  could  read  in  Alick  Simpson's  face  the  effects 
of  internal  conflict  and  her  heart  softened  toward 


The  Canker  of  Doubt          213 

him,  for  she  also  had  heard  of  his  sorrow,  and  his 
sorrow  was  hers  as  well. 

"Poor  boy!"  she  said,  laying  her  hand  lightly  on 
his.  "We  have  all  been  badly  hit  by  this  awful  news. 
And  you  must  feel  it  worst  of  any." 

Alick  looked  at  her  in  utter  despair,  as  all  the 
ghosts  and  shadows  with  which  he  had  fought  on 
the  moor  came  back  again  and  assailed  him. 

"Do  you  believe  this  thing  too?"  he  asked  slowly 
and  desperately.  "If  you  believe  it — it  must  be 
true." 

He  pulled  the  tiny  scrap  of  paper  from  his  vest 
pocket,  tore  it  into  shreds  and  tossed  the  pieces  into 
the  fire  with  the  deliberation  of  a  man  who  had  made 
a  final  decision. 

"I  am  afraid,  Alick,  I  cannot  help  myself.  Wher- 
ever I  have  turned — and  I  have  turned  many  ways 
— it  is  confirmed.  It  has  been  a  heavy  blow  to  me, 
but  heavier  still  to  Allan,  for  he  loved  her  as  he 
would  have  loved  a  daughter  of  his  own.  He  could 
talk  with  her  by  the  hour  and  never  weary.  He 
seemed  to  grow  young  again  when  she  was  in  the 
house,  and  he  worshipped  the  very  air  she  breathed. 
He  refuses  to  speak  of  this  trouble,  and  he  looks  old- 
er than  ever  before,  these  last  few  days.  I  doubt 
if  even  now  he  really  believes  that  she  is  anything 
but  pure,  and  sweet,  and  innocent,  although  it  wor- 
ries him  greatly,  and  I  think  he  would  still  maintain 
that  if  there  is  any  evil,  it  is  not  in  her.  Nor  do  I 


214      The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

think  he  will  condemn  her  until  her  own  lips  acknowl- 
edge her  guilt. 

"I  wish  I  had  his  faith.  But,  my  boy,  this  is  some- 
thing that  we  women  place  high  above  all  else,  and 
we  cannot  turn  in  love  to  one  who  has  failed  to  pre- 
serve her  true  womanliness.  I  cannot  think  how  I 
should  ever  be  able  to  talk  calmly  with  her  again." 

Alick  listened  nervously  until  she  had  concluded. 

"Would  to  God,"  he  cried,  "that  I  had  insisted 
on  our  marriage  when  she  was  swaying  in  the  bal- 
ance. All  this  would  have  been  prevented." 

"No,  no,  Alick  I  But,  in  the  light  of  what  we 
now  know,  rather  thank  your  Maker  that  he  con- 
trolled your  will  and  guided  your  destiny  as  he  did. 

"Yet — there  is  another  to  blame  equally  with  her 
in  this.  And,  do  you  know,  Alick — oh,  my  boy,  for- 
give me,  but  I  cannot  keep  this  back  from  you — " 
she  cried,  tears  springing  to  her  eyes,  "some  are 
coupling  your  name  with  hers." 

"Oh,  God  in  Heaven!"  cried  Alick,  passing  his 
hand  over  his  brow  and  rising,  "What  next — what 
next?  I  wish  that  all  of  those  canting,  cavilling, 
gossiping  scandal-mongers  were  stricken  dumb  for 
all  Eternity." 

Mrs.  Gray's  restraining  hand  was  on  his  arm, 
for  she  had  never  seen  this  quiet,  studious  man  in 
such  a  passion  before. 

"Alick — Alick!"  she  whispered  in  chiding  tones. 

"Do  you  give  credence  to  this?"  he  cried. 


The  Canker  of  Doubt          215 

"AH,  Alick — God  forbid  that  you  should  ever 
come  to  that.  Still,  I  think  it  would  be  better  if 
you  went  away  for  a  little  while,  until  the  worst 
has  blown  over." 

He  caught  her  hands,  and  their  eyes  held  each 
other. 

She  threw  her  arms  around  his  neck  and  kissed 
him  as  his  own  mother  would  have  done. 

And  Alick  turned  and  went  away. 

Back  over  the  hill  he  climbed,  with  the  leaden 
steps  of  a  man  who  had  heard  the  pronouncement 
of  his  doom.  He  dipped  into  the  wood,  through 
the  tangle  of  underbrush  of  berry  bushes  and  vines, 
aimlessly  and  carelessly,  until  he  found  himself  upon 
the  grassy  plane,  near  the  fence  where  he  had  lain 
so  often  listening  to  the  bewitching  strains  of  Kathie's 
music.  And  his  heart  grew  tender  in  protesting  con- 
fliction  with  his  sterner  reason. 

He  stood,  peeling  the  loose  curling  ends  of  bark 
from  a  birch  tree,  his  thoughts  far  away  and  all 
unconscious  of  his  surroundings.  A  voice  at  his 
ear  startled  him  with  uncomfortable  suddenness. 

"You  sure  are  a  hummer  to  ferret  out  the  silent 
places,  Mr.  Simpson!" 

It  was  Copley,  the  gamewarden,  who  spoke. 

"I  saw  you  by  the  Lake  an  hour  and  a  half  ago, 
and  I  hardly  expected  to  stumble  across  you  here 
next.  But  it's  the  dandiest  time  of  the  year  now, 
and  I  don't  wonder  at  you  taking  it  all  in." 


216      The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

"I  like  to  be  in  the  open  and  in  the  solitude,  Cop- 
ley," replied  Alick  shortly. 

"Say! — it's  too  bad  about  that  young  girl  down 
at  Jackson's,"  went  on  the  warden  with  a  jerk  of 
his  head.  "Just  heard  it  the  other  day.  She  was 
a  swell-looker  and  a  real  nice,  quiet  kind  of  a  kid 
besides.  If  I  was  her  big  brother,  or  if  she  was  any- 
thing to  me,  I'd  find  the  man  and  strangle  the  mis- 
erable life  out'n  him — the  cowardly  brute.  That 
blackguard,  Crawford,  knows  more  about  it  than 
anybody  else — or  I'm  an  injun.  What  did  he  beat 
it  for,  if  he  wasn't  skeered?  What  happened  in  the 
dairy,  the  night  of  the  first  snowfall  last  winter, 
was,  I'm  thinking,  more  serious  than  some  folks 
imagined  at  the  time.  But  guess  time  will  tell,  Mr. 
Simpson — and  all  the  gossips  in  the  Valley  are  busy 
with  an  eye  on  the  calendar." 

The  school-teacher  underwent  a  strange  tumult 
of  emotion.  Here  was  another  phase  in  the  case 
which  had  not  occurred  to  him  before.  And  it  set 
him  at  opposites  again.  Simpson  was  a  well-bal- 
anced man,  but  he  felt  that  he  would  be  unable  to 
stand  much  more  of  the  strain  he  had  been  put  to 
these  last  few  hours. 

"You  ain't  lookin'  too  well,  Mr.  Simpson — if  I 
might  mention  it,"  said  Copley. 

"Nor  am  I  feeling  well,"  replied  Alick,  "and  I 
want  to  be  alone." 

The  game  warden  took  the  hint,   disappearing 


The  Canker  of  Doubt          217 

into  the  thicket  and  throwing  back  a  final  sentence 
as  he  went. 

"Crawford  was  nothing  but  a  damned,  sneaking 
blackguard,  and  I  hope  he  gets  what's  comin'  to  him 
before  he's  through." 

Alick  Simpson  was  now  past  all  doubting.  His 
mind  had  accepted  the  inevitable,  but,  nevertheless, 
he  determined  on  a  talk  with  Colin  Jackson  before 
he  shook  himself  entirely  free  from  the  place  which 
had  now  lost  all  charm  for  him.  He  walked  down 
to  the  ranch  and  inquired  for  the  owner. 

"You'll  find  him  at  the  front  gate,"  said  Meg 
Shaw,  who  had  lately  been  reinstated  in  her  old  po- 
sition as  maid  of  all  work,  but  with  a  considerable 
raise  in  wages.  "Take  it  from  me,  though — you're 
wastin'  your  time,  for  you'll  no'  get  muckle  oot  o' 
him  that'll  help  you  ony,"  she  added  drily. 

Alick  did  not  reply,  but  hastened  to  where  the 
rancher  was  leaning  against  the  gate-post,  lazily 
admonishing  a  vicious-looking  bull  terrier  which 
looked  up  into  his  master's  face  familiarly,  with 
open  jaws,  slithering  fangs  and  lolling  tongue. 

"Mr.  Jackson,"  Alick  asked  curtly,  "I  would  like 
Kathie's  address.  Where  can  I  find  her?" 

The  stout,  dour  rancher  looked  him  over  with- 
out making  a  move. 

"Guess  that's  a  like  you'll  have  to  do  without, 
teacher.  And,  what's  more — you  can't  find  her. 
She's  being  well  looked  after;  better  than  she  de- 


218      The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

serves: — if  that's  any  comfort.  But  she's  not  for 
the  likes  of  you  to  be  inquiring  after." 

"Mr.  Jackson — it  is  little  use  you  and  I  mincing 
matters.  I  know  what  is  being  said  about  her  and 
I  mean  to  know  more  before  I  am  through  with 
it — and,  by  God !  if  she  is  the  victim  of  any  of  your 
underhand  scheming,  I'll  tar  and  feather  you  and 
set  you  on  fire  on  your  own  rubbish  heap." 

Colin  Jackson  winced  at  the  vehemence  of  the 
school-teacher's  onslaught,  but  he  felt  too  secure 
within  the  breastworks  which  he  had  built  about  him- 
self to  trouble  much  over  threats ;  and  he  knew  that 
Alick  Simpson  was  labouring  under  a  strong  excite- 
ment. 

"If  you  are  going  to  be  insulting,  Simpson,  the  best 
thing  you  can  do  is  to  git.  I  threatened  once  to  put 
the  dog  on  you.  The  Lord  save  you  if  that  brute 
ever  takes  you  in  tow." 

The  farmer  turned  as  if  to  leave  him.  Simpson's 
lips  tightened  to  a  narrow  line.  He  laid  a  detain- 
ing hand  on  Jackson's  coat  sleeve.  Jackson  pulled 
himself  free,  roughly. 

"Look  here,  young  fellow,"  he  cried,  "keep  your 
hands  off." 

"I  wish  to  know  Kathie's  address,"  repeated 
Simpson  determinedly. 

"And  you  are  not  going  to  know  it,"  replied  Jack- 
son. "It  is  none  of  your  damned  business  where 
she  is.  Although — maybe,  after  all,  it  is — "  he  went 


The  Canker  of  Doubt          219 

on  craftily,  "for  either  you  or  Crawford  know  more 
about  this  than  all  the  rest  of  us." 

The  rancher  vented  a  hoarse  laugh. 

Alick  sprang  at  him,  but  quickly  controlled  him- 
self again. 

"Here,  Pat!"  yelled  Jackson  to  his  dog,  in  a 
considerable  fear.  "Fix  him — fix  him — quick  1" 

The  brute,  surly  and  ill-tempered  like  his  master, 
seemed  to  be  yearning  for  such  an  unusual  pleas- 
ure. Without  even  a  warning  growl,  it  flew  at  Alick 
and  embedded  its  sharp  teeth  firmly  in  the  fleshy 
part  of  his  leg. 

Colin  Jackson  grinned  and  encouraged  the  dog 
with  a  word  now  and  again. 

Simpson  bent  down  and  tried  to  disengage  it, 
but  it  was  like  trying  to  pry  apart  the  teeth  of  a 
bear  trap.  The  pain  was  excruciating,  and  great 
drops  of  perspiration  began  to  come  out  on  his  fore- 
head. His  pent-up  madness  broke  loose  on  this 
sullen,  vicious,  clinging  animal.  He  caught  it  firmly 
by  the  throat  with  both  hands,  burying  his  fingers 
among  the  cords  and  tubes  that  lay  under  its  soft, 
loose  skin. 

Then  commenced  a  struggle  for  the  mastery. 

Still  retaining  its  grip,  the  dog,  growling  savage- 
ly the  while,  fought  and  struggled  with  its  feet  and 
body.  Jackson  laughed  boisterously  at  the  apparent 
futile  efforts  of  the  school-teacher,  who,  goaded  by 
pain  and  anger,  was  exercising  every  ounce  of  his 


220      The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

strength  and  straining  every  fibre  of  his  well-trained 
muscles  to  overpower  his  brute  antagonist. 

The  grin  slowly  began  to  fade  from  Colin  Jack- 
son's face  as  the  well-nigh  incredible  took  place  be- 
fore his  eyes. 

From  some  of  Simpson's  hero-worshipping 
scholars,  Jackson  had  heard  of  the  physical  prowess 
of  the  Principal,  but  he  never  could  have  believed 
that  such  strength  was  possible  in  any  man;  and 
he  stood  gaping  in  helpless  amazement  at  the  dis- 
play. 

Slowly  but  surely  Alick  was  working  his  fingers 
into  the  animal's  throat,  and  moment  by  moment 
the  dog  was  finding  it  increasingly  difficult  to 
breathe.  It  struggled  fiercely  and  violently,  but  the 
clamping  fingers  held  tight.  Its  jaws  relaxed  at  last 
and  it  snapped  at  the  air  in  futile  madness. 

Alick  rose  from  the  ground,  holding  the  squirm- 
ing object  at  arm's  length  before  him.  Gradually, 
its  struggles  ceased;  its  eyes  turned  inward,  its  under- 
jaw  fell  and  a  violent  shudder  passed  through  its 
body;  then  it  hung  from  his  hands,  limp  and  harm- 
less. 

With  a  look  of  unbridled  contempt,  the  Principal 
hurled  the  dead  thing  full  in  the  face  of  the  as- 
tonished rancher;  leaving  him  in  stupefaction,  wip- 
ing his  face  and  surveying  the  lifeless  object  at  his 
feet. 


CHAPTER  FOURTEEN 
The  Madness  of  a  Man 

ON  reaching  home  that  evening,  Alick  Simp- 
son sat  in  his  upstairs  rooms  and  wrote  to 
his  School  Trustees,  asking  an  extended  leave  of 
absence.  He  had  made  up  his  mind  that  he  was 
going  away  somewhere,  anywhere,  from  the  familiar 
scenes  and  the  disturbing  memories  which  they 
aroused. 

He  decided  to  go  away  the  following  noon,  before 
there  would  be  any  time  either  to  grant  or  to  re- 
fuse his  request.  It  mattered  little  to  him  now  any- 
way, and  the  sooner  he  was  off  the  better  for  him 
and  his  peace  of  mind. 

He  turned  down  the  lamp  and  retired  to  his  plain, 
but  spotless  and  cosy,  little  bedroom. 

He  felt  a  horrible  throbbing  at  his  temples  and 
behind  his  eyes — a  new  sensation  to  one  who,  from 
his  birth,  had  never  known  a  moment's  illness.  He 
knew  that  if  he  could  only  sleep  he  would  be  all 
right.  He  courted  sleep  long  and  earnestly,  but 
hour  after  hour  he  lay  awake,  wooing  a  loved  one 
who  would  not  respond.  A  fever  was  surging  in  his 
veins,  increasing  as  the  time  wore  on. 

231 


222      The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

His  brain  refused  to  rest.  It  had  been  over- 
worked. Now  it  had  passed  the  stage  where,  by 
throwing  off  the  driving  belt,  the  machinery  would 
cease  its  revolutions.  He,  a  strong  man,  began  to 
feel  afraid  of  himself.  He  could  not  lie  still.  He 
wanted  to  scream  aloud.  He  could  hear  his  land- 
lady in  the  room  below  chopping  her  kindling  wood 
for  the  next  morning.  Every  chop  was  like  the  beat 
of  a  drum  in  his  ear.  She  coughed  and  to  him  it  was 
an  irritation.  He  heard  her  retire  to  rest  and,  al- 
though he  was  almost  waiting  for  her  to  close  her 
door,  the  noise  of  it  caused  him  to  start  up  nervous- 
ly. The  creaking  of  the  flooring  boards,  under  the 
effect  of  the  cooling  temperature,  annoyed  him  un- 
mercifully. Somewhere  outside,  a  cat  wailed  dis- 
mally with  the  cry  of  a  peevish  child.  The  clock  in 
his  sitting  room  chimed  twelve  and  its  chiming 
seemed  eternal  and  like  the  thundering  of  mighty 
cannon.  Every  tick  thereafter  was  the  loud,  clear 
ring  of  a  blacksmith's  sledge  on  the  anvil  of  his 
brain.  The  heat  in  his  room  became  overpowering. 
The  air  felt  stifling. 

At  last,  in  desperation,  he  threw  the  bedclothes 
aside  and  sprang  up.  He  walked  into  the  adjoining 
room,  turned  up  the  lamp  light  and  gazed  at  his 
own  reflection  in  the  mirror.  It  was  gaunt  and 
haggard,  with  glaring,  blood-shot  eyes. 

"Oh  God  I  Why  cannot  I  rest?"  he  groaned, 
passing  his  fingers  through  his  ruffled  hair.  "I,  who 


The  Madness  of  a  Man        223 

am  as  innocent  as  the  yet  unborn  baby,  must  suffer 
while  the  guilty  one  rests.  Why  can't  I  stop  think- 
ing— if  only  for  a  little  time?  Why  don't  I  drop 
senseless — dead — anything  but  this  continued  think 
— think — think — and  the  clamouring,  hammering, 
thumping  in  my  head?  I  am  losing  my  grip  on 
things.  I  am  conscious  of  that  much.  It  is  more 
than  I  can  stand — this  thing  is  driving  me  insane." 

He  laughed  strangely,  as  he  walked  nervously  up 
and  down  the  room  in  his  slippered  feet. 

"Yes,  Alick  Simpson,  you  Ithought  yourself  a 
mighty  strong  man,  and  self-reliant;  but  a  woman 
comes  along  and  the  strong  man  is  no  more.  It 
isn't  the  first  time  in  history  that  has  happened;  and, 
so  long  as  there  are  women,  It  won't  be  the  last 
time.  But  I  don't  want  to  be  strong  any  more! 
What's  the  use?  Weak  and  evil  men  seem  to  be 
happier,  after  all,  than  the  men  who  fight  and  strive 
for  what  is  right.  What  the  evil  man  desires,  gen- 
erally comes  to  him.  When  it  doesn't  come,  he 
takes  it.  It  is  all  the  same — he  gets  it. 

"Men  who  strive  after  good  seldom  attain  it,  and, 
when  they  do,  they  find  the  good  which  they  have 
striven  for  is  impregnated  with  evil. 

"Tush !  Good  is  a  byword  for  children  and  old 
wives.  I  am  sick  of  the  very  word — heart  sick  of 
it." 

He  sat  down  and  poked  at  the  smouldering  fire. 
He  reached  across  the  table  for  a  book.  He  tried 


224      The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

to  read  it,  but,  with  an  ejaculation  of  disgust,  he 
tossed  it  across  the  room  and  jumped  up  wildly, 
clenching  his  fists  and  closing  his  jaws  tightly. 

For  a  second,  he  glared  at  the  clock  on  the  mantel- 
shelf, as  it  kept  on  its  monotonous,  maddening  tick- 
tick-ticking;  then,  with  an  oath  on  his  lips,  he  drove 
his  fist  into  its  dial,  putting  an  end  forever  to  the 
clock's  usefulness. 

This  action  seemed  to  arouse  some  demon  with- 
in him — a  demon  which  he  had  held  in  chains  all  his 
life;  the  demon  of  evil  before  whom  he  had  bowed 
in  his  soliloquy.  He  moved  across  the  room,  and 
suddenly  threw  wide  open  the  doors  of  the  buffet, 
displaying  an  assortment  of  liquors  that  might  have 
done  credit  to  the  wine-cellar  of  a  Railway  Mag- 
nate or  a  Pork-packing  Millionaire. 

"Ho!"  he  exclaimed  callously,  "I've  kept  you 
there,  year  in  and  year  out,  just  to  show  your  master, 
the  Devil,  how  well  I  have  beaten  his  mad  myth 
called  hereditary  taint.  All  these  years  I  have 
proved  that  the  powers  of  my  mind  are  greater  than 
the  physical  weaknesses  inherited  and  that  I,  the 
mind  part  of  me,  am  the  real  master  of  Alick  Simp- 
son. 

"You  have  outlived  your  usefulness  for  that  pur- 
pose though.  I  have  long  ceased  to  dread  you  and 
I  am  now  going  to  make  friends  and  take  you  to 
my  bosom — purer  than  any  maid  and  always  true 
to  the  one  who  buys  you. 


The  Madness  of  a  Man        225 

"They  say  you  are  the*  Mother  of  Oblivion.  Bet- 
ter that  than  harrowing,  maddening,  damning  wake- 
fulness.  Oblivion — that's  the  word.  That's  what 
I'm  seeking — that's  what  I  require.  Just  a  few 
hours  of  Mr.  Oblivion,  then  I  shall  be  able  again 
to  fight  all  the  Devils  in  hell  and  out  of  it — and  beat 
them  at  their  own  game." 

A  high-pitched,  unearthly,  rippling,  gloating  laugh 
invaded  the  room,  issuing  evidently  from  the  far 
recesses  of  the  cupboard.  The  school-teacher  closed 
the  door  quickly  and  sprang  back. 

"Good  God!"  he  cried  soberly.  "What  was 
that?  It  sounded  like  the  laugh  of  some  hell-fiend 
with  an  eternal  soul  fast  in  its  clutches." 

He  looked  around  suspiciously,  as  great  beads  of 
perspiration  oozed  out  on  his  forehead. 

"It  came  from  the  cupboard,"  he  whispered 
hoarsely.  "I  feel  sure  of  that — but  how  on  earth 
could  it?  That  receptacle  could  not  hold  anything 
larger  than  a  cat,  with  all  these  bottles  in  it.  How 
foolish  I  am !  Nervous  as  a  school-girl  I" 

He  laughed  a  little  uneasily. 

"What  strange  tricks  imagination  can  play  with  a 
tired  mind!  Hallucinations!  What  next  I  wonder? 
Yes,  Alick — old  chap — you  are  sure  losing  your 
grip.  A  few  hours  more,  a  few  more  fantastic  fan- 
cies, a  snap — and  madness.  Ah  well!  What  of 
it?  Who  cares?  Anything  would  be  more  welcome 
than  sanity — gnawing,  festering,  bloated  sanity." 


226      The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

He  laughed  again,  and  as  he  did  so  the  weird, 
haunting  laugh,  which  he  had  heard  before,  replied 
—quickly  and  loudly;  dying  gradually  in  muffled 
tones  to  a  far  distant  echo. 

Alick,  after  all,  was  not  a  coward,  and  he  jumped 
to  the  cupboard  and  threw  wide  the  doors. 

"Devil  or  fancy,"  he  cried,  "you  shall  not  hold 
me  from  the  rest  I  require." 

He  took  out  a  large  bottle  and  some  glasses. 

"With  this  inside,  Illusion  cannot  frighten  me," 
he  muttered,  looking  through  the  bottle  against  the 
light.  "I  cannot  say  much  about  you,  old  fellow, 
from  personal  contact,"  he  soliloquised,  "but  I've 
heard  plenty,  and  I've  seen  your  work.  One  thing 
I  do  know;  you  cannot  harm  me  as  you  harmed  my 
father,  and  my  father's  father ; — for  it  is  long,  long 
ago  since  I  mastered  you.  And — if  I  am  the  master, 
you're  the  servant.  What's  the  good  of  keeping 
servants  when  one  never  makes  use  of  them.  Ho, 
my  minion  I  To-night  you  must  work  for  me.  Lead 
me  by  the  hand  to  the  land  of  Oblivion — the  land 
of  No-One-Cares,  the  haven  for  tormented  mortals." 

He  seated  himself  at  the  table  and  poured  out  a 
glass  of  the  raw  spirits. 

As  he  did  so,  the  door  opened  noiselessly  and  the 
calm,  soldierly  figure  of  Captain  Gray,  muffled  to 
the  neck,  silhouetted  itself  against  the  impenetrable 
black  beyond  him.  With  a  grim,  set  look  he  sur- 
veyed the  situation,  and  pulling  out  a  small,  silver 


The  Madness  of  a  Man        227 

revolver  from  his  vest  pocket,  he  stood  stock-still 
with  his  finger  on  the  trigger,  closely  watching  every 
movement  of  the  school-teacher,  and  ready  to  act  in 
a  moment. 

Simpson  neither  heard  nor  saw  him.  He  was 
too  intent  upon  the  new  sensation  which  he  was 
about  to  experience. 

He  held  up  the  glass  in  roystering  fashion. 

"Tush!"  he  exclaimed.  "That  isn't  enough  to 
obliviate  a  cat." 

He  filled  the  tumbler  to  the  brim,  and  smiled  as 
he  looked  at  it. 

"Whole  hog  or  nothing!"  said  he,  with  a  dash  of 
devil-may-care.  "It  is  worth  a  toast.  I  have  never 
given  a  toast  before,  so  I  must  give  a  real  good  one." 

He  stood  up. 

"Here's  to  the  eternal  confusion  of  all  women, 
and  of  all  men  who  are  fools  enough  to  have  any 
thing  to  do  with  them." 

He  raised  the  glass  to  his  lips.  The  fumes  filled 
his  nostrils  and  sought  his  brain. 

Something  within  him — which  had  previously 
given  way — seemed  to  clamp  together  again.  With 
a  wild  oath  he  dashed  the  glass  of  liquor  from  him, 
shivering  it  in  fragments  against  the  fireplace. 

He  passed  his  hand  over  his  brow  and  sank  limply 
into  a  chair. 

"Oh,  my  God!"  he  cried  despairingly.  "What 
was  I  doing — what  was  I  doing?" 


228      The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

A  new  tone  crept  into  his  voice — a  tone  of  tri- 
umph. 

"But  I  didn't..   No,  no,— I  didn't  1" 

He  sat  for  a  while  in  silence,  with  his  head  resting 
on  his  hand,  the  picture  of  dejection. 

"What  would  my  boys  have  said  to  that — the 
boys  who  hold  me  up  as  an  example  to  the  whole 
district;  the  boys  whose  parents  tell  them  to  follow 
me  in  all  things- if  they  would  do  well;  the  dear  little 
fellows  who  look  to  me  to  help  them  on  to  becoming 
men,  real  men  with  brains,  instead  of  simple  beasts 
of  burden? 

"They  have  been  true  to  me,  and,  by  God!  if  I 
die  doing  it,  I'll  be  true  to  their  ideal  of  me." 

He  collected  the  bottle  and  the  remaining  glasses, 
raised  the  window  and  tossed  the  lot  far  out  into  the 
darkness  of  the  garden. 

As  he  turned  again,  his  eyes  fell  upon  the  silent 
witness  at  the  door;  his  head  dropped  on  his  chest 
and  he  stood,  ashamed. 

The  Captain  came  forward  with  outstretched 
hand,  and,  placing  the  other  on  Alick's  shoulder, 
made  him  look  up. 

"Shake  hands,  my  lad,"  he  cried,  almost  cheerily, 
"Allan  Gray  is  proud  of  you.  I  have  seen  fighting 
all  over  the  Empire,  but  that  was  the  greatest  vic- 
tory I  ever  witnessed.  I  was  ready  to  help — whether 
you  desired  it  or  not — but  you  didn't  know  that; 


The  Madness  of  a  Man        229 

and  you  fought,  single-handed,  and  won.  Good  boyt 
Alick! 

"Maybe  you  never  thought  of  it,  but,  for  you,  that 
meant  life  or  death.  So — bravo  again !" 

Tears  were  in  the  old  fellow's  eyes  as  he  gripped 
Alick's  hand  and  led  him  over  to  the  fireplace,  for 
he  dearly  loved  the  young  fellow. 

"Alick,  I've  something  to  tell  you  regarding  a  dis- 
covery I  made  to-day.  I  could  not  keep  it  until 
to-morrow,  and,  as  I  felt  anxious  for  you  anyway, 
I  stepped  over,  late  and  all  as  it  is.  I  saw  the  light 
in  your  room,  and  knew  from  it  that  you  were  still 
awake.  The  back  door  was  open.  I  did  not  have 
to  disturb  anyone — I  walked  in,  and  here  I  am." 

"Yes — and  what  a  miserable  weakling  you  must 
think  me,"  put  in  Alick.  "I  have  been  a  fool — 
foolish  and  almost  mad — but  that  is  all  over  now. 
It  was  the  thought  of  those  little  school-fellows  of 
mine  that  turned  the  trick.  Thank  God! — I  still 
have  them  to  work  for." 

"Yes,  my  lad!"  replied  the  Captain,  "and,  who 
knows,  but  there  may  be  yet  another  to  work  for  as 
well. 

"I  have  little  wish  to  open  up  the  wound  which 
we  all  feel,  but  I  cannot  rest  until  I  have  satisfied 
myself  on  every  point. 

"I  was  going  through  the  path  in  the  wood  this 
afternoon,  and  I  was  thinking  of  Kathie — I  always 
seem  to  be  thinking  of  her,  poor  lass.  I  passed  the 


230      The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

spot  where  I  found  her  in  the  snow  last  winter,  and, 
as  I  stood  for  a  moment,  ruminating,  I  caught  sight 
of  this,  half-buried  in  the  soil.  It  must  have  lain 
there  all  this  time.  See,  Alick! — it  is  a  little  baby 
brooch.  Do  you  know  whose  name  that  is?" 

Alick  scrutinised  it  carefully. 

"Kathie  Gray,"  he  read.  "Why,  yes, — Captain! 
— that  is  her  real  name.  She  told  me  this  in  con- 
fidence once.  But  she  was  always  Kathie  Jackson 
to  me,  and  to  everyone  else." 

"That  is  just  the  point,'*  replied  the  Captain  with 
suppressed  excitement.  "Her  name  couldn't  be 
Jackson — for  that  is  her  mother's  maiden  name. 
Her  mother  was  Jackson's  sister.  And  it  is  right 
there,  in  the  first  place  that  I  have  had  strange  fan- 
cies. 

"Kathie  Gray  is  her  real  name,  Alick.  And,  that 
being  so,  she  bears  a  name  that  is  very  dear  to  me 
— for  my  dear  mother  bore  that  name  before  her 
—Kathie  Gray." 

A  light  began  to  dawn  on  Alick's  understanding. 

"Surely  you  don't  mean ?"  he  queried 

eagerly. 

"I  really  don't  know  what  I  mean,  my  boy, — and 
I  don't  know  exactly  what  to  think.  I  am  simply 
groping  around.  But  ever  since  the  first  time  I  saw 
her,  I  have  had  strange  feelings  of  ownership  over 
that  girl.  And  this  has  given  me  stranger  feelings 
still.  I  am  interested — more  than  interested:  I  am 


The  Madness  of  a  Man        231 

anxious.  Now  I  shall  never  rest  until  I  have  satis- 
fied myself  that  my  vague  surmises  are  true,  or 
merely  silly  notions. 

"You  know  that  my  brother  was  a  musician  and 
was  found  drowned  when  only  a  lad: — at  least  his 
violin  was  discovered  in  the  clutch  of  a  dead  person, 
supposed  to  be  he.  The  features  of  that  drowned 
being  were  unrecognisable;  but  the  violin  was  the 
clue.  Nothing  has  ever  happened  to  disturb  these 
original  Conclusions — nothing  until  Kathie  came  into 
my  life.  Now  I  fancy  I  can  trace  little  traits  in  her 
peculiar  to  my  boyish  memories  of  my  little  brother 
— although  these  memories  are  somewhat  faded  and 
blurred.  But,  more  than  anything  else,  she  reminds 
me  of  my  mother — the  same  dark  eyes;  the  same 
sad  face;  the  same  perfect  form;  the  same  kind  of 
nature  and  the  same  proud  bearing.  Only  one  other 
person  could  handle  a  violin  as  she  can,  and  that  one 
was  my  little  brother.  Such  genius  as  hers  could 
only  have  been  brought  to  perfection  through 
genius. 

"Margery  is  inclined  to  laugh  at  me — but  I  tell 
you,  Alick,  I  am  going  to  probe  this  to  the  bottom, 
and  I  am  anxious  to  begin  right  away.  It  may  mean 
months  of  search  in  the  South  of  Scotland  and  as 
long  in  the  East  Coast  of  Ireland,  but  I  shall  never 
let  up  until  I  know. 

"You  must  apply  for  leave  of  absence.  It  is  due 
you  after  these  years  of  ceaseless  service.  Your 


232      The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

health  demands  it.  You  must  come  with  me.  It 
will  do  both  of  us  good.  Will  you  come,  Alick? 
I  shall  require  your  assistance,  as  well  as  your  com- 
pany." 

"I  had  intended  going  away,"  replied  Alick.  "I 
have  a  letter  here,  written,  addressed  to  the  Trus- 
tees. I  might  as  well  go  with  you  as  anywhere  else, 
even  if  I  can  give  but  slight  credence  to  your  strange 
fancies.  It  is  of  little  use  or  moment  to  me  now 
where  I  go.  And  you  seem  to  have  forgotten,  Cap- 
tain, that  even  if  what  you  surmise  proves  true,  it 
will  mean  nothing  but  fresh  sorrow  to  all  of  us.  At 
one  time,  it  might  have  been  a  glorious  discovery, 
)but  that  time  has  gone." 

The  old  soldier  stared  at  his  young  friend  in  sur- 
prise. 

"Mean  nothing,  do  you  say,  Alick!  Look  here, 
my  boy — if  this  proves  true  and  she  is  really  my 
brother's  daughter,  then,  were  she  the  most  degraded 
woman  in  the  country,  I  still  would  be  her  uncle  and 
her  guardian,  and  as  responsible  for  her  well-being 
— ay,  and  more  so — than  that  tight-fisted,  scheming 
scamp,  Jackson;  and  I  shall  look  after  her  and  care 
for  her,  and  bring  her  back  if  I  be  ostracised  by 
every  family  in  the  Okanagan  Valley." 

Captain  Gray's  excitement  grew  apace. 

"But  it  is  all  a  lie,"  he  cried  vehemently.  v  Alick, 
I  tell  you  it  is  a  lie." 

He  shook  the  teacher  by  the  arm. 


The  Madness  of  a  Man        233 

"Why  don't  you  agree  with  me?  Why  don't  you 
stand  up  and  say  with  me  that  it  is  a  lie?  You  are 
as  much  interested  in  her  as  I  am.  You  have  con- 
demned her  without  a  trial,  never  giving  her  a  fair 
chance  to  defend  herself.  That  dear,  sweet,  pure, 
innocent  girl,  without  an  evil  thought  let  alone  an 
evil  action :  what  do  you  know  about  her  ?  Nothing ! 
nothing  but  the  garbage  talk  of  the  neighbourhood. 
Ask  her  yourself  and  get  her  answer  before  you  play 
so  sure. 

"I  am  getting  to  be  an  old  man,  Alick,  but  by 
God !  my  faith  in  women  hasn't  wavered  yet.  I  know 
a  good  face  when  I  see  it : — and  so  do  you.  I  know 
a  pure  woman  when  I  am  in  her  company: — and 
— so — should — you." 

Alick  listened  to  the  outburst,  and  his  old  feeling 
of  confidence  tried  to  reassert  itself. 

"Look  here!"  continued  the  Captain,  "what  was 
your  first  thought  when  you  heard  of  this?" 

"That  it  was  a  vile,  slanderous  lie,"  responded 
Alick  quickly. 

"Precisely!     And  your  second  thought?" 

"That  I  should  never  believe  it  until  her  own  lips 
acknowledged  her  guilt." 

"Yes! — and  your  next?" 

"That  even  with  her  acknowledgment,  she  might 
still  be  suffering  silently  for  another;  and  that  I 
would  find  the  man  if  I  searched  a  lifetime  and  ex- 


234     The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

tract  the  truth  from  him  if  I  had  to  pick  it  from 
his  bones  with  pincers." 

"Yes,  yes!"  nodded  the  Captain,  "and  here  she 
is,  banished  from  your  mind  in  disgrace ;  condemned 
and  put  out  of  your  life  forever; — all  on  talk,  talk, 
mere  old  wives'  talk — with  not  a  solitary  proof  in 
your  hands. 

"Do  you  think  she  would  have  treated  you  that 
way?  For  shame,  Alick! 

"Buckle  to,  man — and  stand  by  me,  and  by  her, 
until  this  new  evidence  is  complete.  By  the  time  we 
have  discovered  all  about  her  parents,  she  will  be 
home  here  again.  Time  enough  then  to  hear  her 
defence." 

Alick  Simpson  looked  up  with  a  faint,  but  new 
hope  in  his  face. 

"All  right,  Captain!  I  shall  be  ready  to  go  with 
you  to-morrow  morning." 

"No  sir!"  replied  the  Captain.  "I  am  not  losing 
sight  of  you  any  more.  Push  a  few  things  in  your 
bag  now,  come  with  me  and  spend  the  night  at 
Broadacres.  We  can  be  up  with  the  lark,  and  off 
by  the  afternoon  train  for  Sicamous,  then  East,  and 
over  the  sea  to  the  Tight  Little  Island.'  " 


CHAPTER  FIFTEEN 
The  Martyrdom  of  the  Music  Witch 

THE  early  springtime,  with  its  rapidly  depart- 
ing snow,  its  chinook  breezes,  its  bright  sun- 
shine and  its  warbling  birds,  spread  its  cheery  glow 
and  its  whispered  promise  over  the  fair  and  fertile 
Valley  of  the  Okanagan. 

A  new  Principal  still  temporarily  filled  the  posi- 
tion of  Alick  Simpson,  M.A.,  at  the  Vernock  High 
School.  Tom  Semple,  that  able,  shrewd  and  honest 
ranch-foreman,  with  the  aid  of  the  indefatigable 
Mrs.  Gray,  kept  Broadacres  in  garden-like  order  in 
the  absence  of  the  genial  Captain  who,  with  Alick, 
was  still  over  in  Britain. 

Jackson's  ranch  wore  a  strange,  hectic  flush  of 
unnatural  prosperity,  born  of  a  willingness  on  the 
part  of  certain  creditors  to  grant  extra  time  con- 
cessions, in  the  hope,  thereby,  of  coming  out  of  a 
shady  jack-pot  with  something  approaching  that 
with  which  they  went  in.  Colin  Jackson  was  now 
known  to  smile  upon  occasion. 

Twice  already  had  Tom  Menteith  run  up  from 
the  South,  in  anticipation  of  the  return  of  Lizbeth, 
but  twice  he  had  to  go  away  disappointed;  for  Liz- 

235 


236      The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

beth  was  still  somewhere  up  the  Coast,  nursing  her 
unfortunate  cousin,  Kathie. 

Though  impatient,  young  Menteith's  love  merely 
waxed  the  warmer  in  his  sweetheart's  absence,  and 
he  vowed  a  vow,  much  to  his  despairing  sire's  annoy- 
ance, that  all  Ceylon  and  all  Ceylon's  tea-plantations 
could  "fade  away  and  gradually  die,"  but  they  should 
never  shelter  him  until  he  had'had  a  few  more  days' 
sweethearting  in  the  Valley  with  her  who  would  fol- 
low him  so  soon  after  his  departure  and  wed  him 
in  real  plantation  style  away  there  in  far  Ceylon — 
although  why  she  would  not  marry  him  in  the  Valley 
and  go  with  him  was  still,  to  him,  an  irritating 
enigma. 

The  spring  gave  way  to  the  maturing  heat  of  the 
summer,  and  the  summer  sweltered  on.  But  only 
when  the  cooler  nights  and  the  ripening  fruits  of  the 
orchards  heralded  the  early  coming  of  the  golden 
fall  was  Tom  Menteith's  great  longing  satisfied  and 
was  he  at  last  able  to  welcome  the  returning  runaway 
love. 

Lizbeth — somewhat  pale,  to  be  sure,  from  her 
alleged  nursing,  yet  fresh,  and  full,  and  lovely  as  of 
yore — was  whisked  away,  here,  there,  everywhere, 
by  that  impetuous  and  long-suffering  lover  of  hers; 
while  Kathie — snuggling  to  her  breast  the  rein- 
forced evidence  of  an  unconscious  shame — sought 
the  byways  and  the  quiet  places;  the  woods,  the 
orchards,  the  solitude  of  the  Lakeside. 


kThe  Martyrdom  of  the  Music  Witch  237 

Kathie  had  nursed  her  cousin,  and  now,  faithful 
to  her  promise,  she  was  tending  her  cousin's  child. 

All  innocent  of  the  scandal  which  had  been  spread 
about  during  her  absence  and  guilty  only  of  hiding 
the  secret  of  two  others — if  that  be  guilt — she  did 
not  at  first  understand  the  meaning  of  the  fingers 
which  were  pointed  in  her  direction,  nor  the  action 
of  the  local  girls  when  she  met  them  on  the  road- 
way in  the  drawing  in  of  their  skirts  as  she  passed 
them  by.  She  did  not  grasp  the  innuendo  contained 
in  the  chuckle  and  side-long  looks  of  the  young 
ranch-hands  and  helpers.  She  was  perturbed,  it  is 
true,  by  the  increased  show  of  familiarity  on  the 
part  of  old  Wong,  her  uncle's  Chinese  cook,  but  she 
was  unable  to  find  a  reason  for  it  other  than  that  of 
length  of  service.  The  sad  head-wagging  of  the  old 
ranchers  and  the  chin-tilting  of  their  righteous  wives 
were,  for  a  time,  entirely  lost  on  her,  and  she  went 
on  her  way  holding  her  head  high  and  her  eyes  level, 
thus  unconsciously  adding  fresh  fuel  to  the  fire  which 
was  already  well  ablaze. 

But  it  was  not  very  long  before  the  whole  truth 
of  the  position  she  had  assumed  was  forced  upon 
her  rudely  and  with  an  emphasis  that  could  not  be 
denied. 

One  evening,  shortly  after  her  return,  as  the  sun 
was  going  down  behind  the  spreading  hills,  as  she 
sat  quietly  and  lonely  on  a  grassy  bank  at  the  foot 
of  the  orchard,  resting  in  the  welcome,  cool,  rising 


238      The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

breeze — a  bright  flame  sprang  up  from  a  vacant  field 
on  the  great  ranch  of  David  Menteith.  It  was  lurid 
and  high-reaching  for  a  few  minutes,  then  gradually 
it  settled  down  to  the  steady  glow  of  a  well-tended 
bon-fire. 

Several  times  within  the  past  two  weeks,  she  had 
watched  it  and  on  each  occasion  she  had  listened 
to  the  cheery  voices  and  the  merry  laughter,  to  the 
sweet  songs  and  the  hearty  choruses  of  girl  voices  as 
they  wafted  up  the  hill  from  those  light-hearted, 
clean-minded,  healthy,  young  fruit-gatherers,  stu- 
dents from  the  colleges  and  teachers  from  the 
schools  of  far  distant  towns  and  cities,  all  banded 
together,  organised,  housed  and  chaperoned,  during 
the  weeks  they  had  arranged  to  lend  their  valuable 
aid  to  the  ranchers  in  the  garnering  of  the  Valley's 
bountiful  fruit  crop;  pioneers  of  an  organisation 
that,  in  later  years,  was  to  prove  of  such  great  ser- 
vice in  saving  the  food  supply  of  the  country,  when 
the  men  who  looked  after  it,  ordinarily,  were  doing 
sterner  work. 

Kathie  had  often  longed  to  be  down  among  the 
girls,  talking,  and  laughing,  and  singing  as  they 
were;  but  her  inborn  reticence  had  so  far  kept  her 
away. 

This  evening,  however,  the  ache  at  her  heart  for 
the  companionship  of  those  healthy  girls  gnawed  so 
persistently  that  she  found  herself,  almost  uncon- 


The  Martyrdom  of  the  Music  Witch  239 

sciously,  at  the  fringe  of  the  bon-fire  ere  she  awak- 
ened in  her  shyness  to  her  apparent  daring. 

A  merry  dance  tune,  played  by  a  girl  violinist,  was 
ending,  and  the  nimble-footed  girl  couples  were  just 
returning  to  their  seats  on  the  fallen  logs  around  the 
fire. 

Kathie  stood  shyly  in  the  shadows,  until  the  bright- 
eyed  little  violinist,  doubtless  drawn  by  that  strange, 
magnetic  kinship  that  all  artists  feel,  ran  over  to 
her  and  drew  her  quietly  and  lovingly  with  her  to  a 
place  on  one  of  the  hewn  trees. 

"What's  your  name?"  asked  Bright  Eyes.  "Mine 
is  Dorothy.  I  come  from  Vancouver.  I  go  to  the 
Normal  there.  We  are  spending  our  holidays  fruit- 
gathering — and  we're  having  the  time  of  our  sweet, 
young  lives." 

She  laughed.  And  Kathie  laughed  too.  And  she 
told  Dorothy  Bright  Eyes  her  name.  Before  three 
minutes  had  gone,  Kathie  heard  the  names  of  a 
dozen  of  Dorothy's  friends.  In  five  minutes  more 
she  forgot  her  sorrows,  and  in  ten  she  was  laugh- 
ing and  singing  and  dancing,  as  merry  as  the  mer- 
riest there. 

But  ever  she  kept  near  to  little  Dorothy  Bright 
Eyes :  sometimes  with  a  hand  in  hers,  sometimes  an 
arm  round  her  waist. 

And  the  evening  skipped  gaily  along  to  the  joy  of 
the  dance  and  the  song. 

As  Dorothy  sat  chatting  her  little  gay  tongue 


240      The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

away,  Kathie's  hands  went  lovingly  to  the  violin 
that  lay,  for  the  moment  idle,  on  Dorothy's  lap. 
She  picked  it  up,  and  by  the  very  movement  in  so 
doing  she  betrayed  herself.  Dorothy  turned  on  her 
quickly  and  excitedly. 

"You  play  I  Don't  tell  me  I  You  do!  I  just 
know  you  do. 

"Say,  girls!  Here's  a  find!  Kathie  can  play  the 
violin.  She's  just  aching  to  do  it,  too." 

Kathie  blushed. 

"No,  no!"  she  remonstrated,  "I  haven't  played 
for  ever  so  long." 

"All  the  more  reason,"  cried  Bright  Eyes. 

"It's  your  turn  to  do  something,  anyway,"  shout- 
ed someone  else. 

"Yes,  yes!  Come  on!  Come  on — be  a  sport!" 
put  in  half  a  dozen,  as  they  gathered  round.  And 
before  she  realised  it,  she  was  standing  in  the  ring, 
in  the  glow  of  the  fire-light,  with  the  violin  of 
Dorothy  Bright  Eyes  under  her  chin  and  all  ready 
to  begin ;  her  eyes  wide  in  a  distant  and  dreamy  con- 
templation, her  black,  curling  hair  playing  over  her 
brow  with  the  evening's  breeze,  her  lips  apart  in  a 
contented  smile  and  her  tall,  graceful  figure  poised 
and  motionless. 

With  the  first  sweet  notes,  the  chatter  and  laugh- 
ter ceased  and  a  hush  fell  over  that  merry,  boister- 
ous crowd,  which  was  not  broken  until  the  player 
had  finished. 


[The  Martyrdom  of  the  Music  Witch  241 

They  were  the  dear  home  songs  that  Kathie 
played  that  night,  and  she  played  them  as  they  had 
never  before  been  played  by  any  human. 

"Killarney," — and  all  the  home-hunger  and  heart- 
rending love  of  an  emigrant  for  the  days  of  long 
ago,  for  the  scenes  of  happy  childhood,  for  the  dear 
land  of  birth,  welled  up  and  overflowed. 

A  pause,  then  the  player's  mood  changed  and  she 
glided  into  that  swinging,  lilting,  Irish  melody,  "The 
Low  Backed  Car,"  and  such  was  her  interpretation 
that  many  of  the  college  girls  around  her,  who  had 
never  been  out  of  British  Columbia  in  their  sweet 
young  lives  and  who  knew  Ireland  only  from  their 
Geography  books,  got  their  first  real  glimpse  of  The 
Emerald  Isle : — the  white-washed  stone  houses,  the 
thatched  roofs,  the  railed  village  fountain  and  the 
market  place;  the  cows  tethered  to  the  iron  rails; 
the  squealing  and  grunting  pigs  in  the  high  carts; 
the  ducks  and  geese  and  chickens;  the  delf  set  out 
on  the  side  streets  for  sale;  the  pretty  colleens  and 
the  bargaining  Pats;  the  jarvey  in  his  jaunting  car: 
— and  PEGGY,  the  "girl  wid  the  way  wid  her." 

From  that  sweet  song  of  Irish  love — which  is  the 
same  delightful,  old-fashioned,  never-satisfying,  all- 
absorbing  love  that  they  have  in  other  lands,  only 
more  so — Kathie  tossed  her  head,  banished  the 
memory  and  pattered  into  the  "Irish  Washerwoman" 
until  every  foot  around  that  bon-fire  was  an  Irish 
foot  and  beat  in  true  Irish  fashion;  until  every 


242      The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

heart  became  an  Irish  heart  and  gave  an  extra  beat 
in  every  three  for  Ireland;  until  the  very  sparks 
from  the  crackling  fire  flew  upward  with  greater 
light  and  gusto,  as  if  glad  to  die  to  such  an  abandon- 
ment of  rollicking  melody. 

When  at  last  Kathie  stopped,  there  seemed  to  be 
a  hollow  place  somewhere  in  the  earth;  a  hollow 
place  where  Ireland  had  been.  And  that  hollow 
was  felt  until  Kathie  had  seated  herself  once  more 
by  the  side  of  Dorothy  Bright  Eyes,  and  they  were 
holding  hands  in  sympathy. 

Then  the  girls  cheered,  and  shouted,  and  laughed 
in  their  delight;  the  hollow  filled  up  again,  and  Ire- 
land, though  Ireland  still,  was  to  them  but  a  mem- 
ory of  some  aching  folksong. 

When  the  noise  and  the  hand-clapping  abated,  it 
was  echoed  a  few  yards  away  from  the  fire,  away 
in  the  part-shadows  where  David  Menteith  and 
young  Tom  were  standing,  having  been  drawn,  evi- 
dently, by  the  witchery  of  Kathie's  music. 

And  from  out  the  part-shadows  came  the  awaken- 
ing. 

A  haughty,  imperious  dame,  with  the  garb  of  a 
Pilgrim  Mother,  the  eye  of  a  hawk  and  a  mouth 
firm-set  and  relentless — David  Menteith's  Old  Coun- 
try house-keeper  and  the  self-appointed  Keeper  of 
Morals  for  the  Okanagan  Valley;  and  all  Canada 
if  she  had  been  permitted — came  forward  to  where 
the  two  chaperons  of  the  girls  were  seated.  She 


The  Martyrdom  of  the  Music  Witch  243 

spoke  to  them  quietly,  then  she  crossed  over  to 
Kathie  like  an  avenging  she-devil. 

She  stood  in  front  of  the  girl  and  her  words 
came  sharp  and  cutting. 

"What  are  you  doing  here  among  innocent  girls? 
Go  home  I" 

Kathie  stared  in  surprise,  then  she  sprang  up  in- 
dignantly. 

Most  folks  in  and  near  Vernock  were  afraid  of 
this  goodly  Keeper  of  Morals,  but  not  so  Kathie, 
for  she  had  never  encountered  her  before,  and  fur- 
thermore, had  nothing  to  be  afraid  of. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  asked,  suppressing  her 
excitement. 

"What  do  I  mean!  You  ask  me  that?  Haven't 
you  a  spark  of  shame  left,  woman?  Go  home  to 
your  child !  Don't  say  a  word !  Get  from  here  and 
home. 

"Don't  dare  set  your  shameless  feet  on  this  ranch 
again." 

Kathie's  face  turned  pale  and  she  clutched  at  her 
throat  for  a  greater  freedom  in  breathing. 

The  terrible  truth  of  the  insinuation  was  at  last 
dawning  on  her. 

Already  the  chaperons  were  calling  the  girls 
around  them.  Kathie  turned  to  go.  But  Dorothy 
Bright  Eyes  was  at  her  side  in  a  moment  and  her 
eyes  were  flashing  defiance  at  Sir  David's  house- 
keeper. 


244      The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

"Hush,  my  dear!"  commanded  the  house-keeper. 
"Don't  be  carried  away  in  your  childish  ignorance." 

"I  won't  hush,"  cried  Dorothy,  stamping  her  feet. 
"You  go  away  and  mind  your  own  affairs.  Leave 
us  alone.  She's  as  good  as  we  are — you — you  sour, 
old,  spoil-sport  I" 

Dorothy's  words  made  no  impress  upon  the  cold 
nature  of  the  Keeper  of  Morals. 

"You  are  a  very  ignorant  little  girl — and  very 
foolish.  That  woman  has  a  child — and  no  husband. 
Never  had  a  husband." 

"It's  a  1 — ,"  flashed  Kathie,  but  she  stopped  ere 
the  word  came  out,  for  she  remembered  her  prom- 
ise to  her  uncle. 

Innocent  little  Dorothy  stood  back  and  gasped. 

"If  you're  wise, — Miss  Jackson — you'll  go  home 
— quick,"  put  in  the  house-keeper  coldly.  "This  is 
something  that  can't  be  lied  out  of." 

"Say! — Mother  Anne,"  interposed  the  genial 
voice  of  Tom  Menteith,  "what's  all  this  to  do? 
Can't  you  leave  the  girl  alone  for  a  few  hours' 
amusement?" 

"And  contaminate  the  whole  neighbourhood, 
Tom?"  she  asked  composedly;  "no,  my  boy!" 

"Oh  contaminate  fiddlesticks  I  Contaminate 
nothing!" 

"Allow  me  to  know  better,  Tom  I  We  are  respon- 
sible for  the  welfare  and  the  well-doing  of  these 
young  ladies." 


The  Martyrdom  of  the  Music  Witch  245 

"Anne,  it's  a  beastly  shame,"  he  continued. 

"Yes,  Tom,  I  agree — shame  is  the  correct  word." 

"Oh,  shame  be  damned!  There  are  lots  worse 
than  she,  only  they  haven't  been  found  out,"  he  ex- 
ploded unguardedly. 

As  the  words  fell,  a  feeling  of  scorn  and  loathing 
arose  in  Kathie. 

To  think,  as  she  did,  that  she  should  be  suffering 
for  his  misdeeds,  and  yet  he  should  seek  to  shield 
himself  by  referring  to  the  shame  of  it  as  her  own 
i — the  deceit,  the  hollow  sham  and  the  devilish  mock- 
ery with  which  she  seemed  to  be  connected,  filled 
her  with  dismay. 

"Let  me  see  you  home,"  said  young  Menteith 
courteously,  addressing  her  and  placing  his  hand 
lightly  on  her  arm. 

She  stepped  away  from  him  with  flashing  eyes  and 
panting  bosom. 

"Keep  away!"  she  cried.  "Don't  touch  me, 
please: — you — you  beast.  I  hate  you.  I  despise 
you.  You  are  not  a  man — you  are  a  coward." 

Tom  Menteith  threw  out  his  arms  and  shrugged 
his  shoulders  as  if  relieving  himself  of  further  re- 
sponsibility. Then  he  turned  and  walked  off. 

The  girls  were  still  standing  in  a  cluster  at  tha 
other  side  of  the  fire,  as  Kathie  made  to  leave. 

Dorothy  Bright  Eyes  was  at  Kathie's  side. 

"Dorothy!"  called  one  of  the  chaperons.  "Doro- 
thy— come  away — please  I" 


246      The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

"No!"  defied  Dorothy. 

"I'm  coming  to  walk  part  of  the  way  with  you, 
Miss  Jackson : — just  to  show  them.  See  1" 

"Oh,  you  dear  I"  cried  Kathie,  sweeping  little 
Bright  Eyes  into  her  arms  and  kissing  her  lovingly 
on  the  lips. 

Then  she  released  her  and  ran  off,  leaving  the 
girl  surprised  yet  sadly  happy. 


CHAPTER  SIXTEEN 
Changing  Lights 

GRIEF-STRICKEN  and  almost  afraid,  Kathie 
left  the  bon-fire  and  the  merry  crowd  behind 
her,  never  looking  aside,  never  stopping  until  she 
had  reached  the  ranch  and  had  broken  into  the 
kitchen  where  her  uncle  was. 

"What  the  devil's  wrong  now?"  he  inquired,  sur- 
veying her,  as  she  stood  before  him  all  breathless 
and  excited.  "Have  you  been  chased  by  a  ghost?" 

She  dropped  at  her  uncle's  feet  and  cried  as  if  her 
heart  would  burst. 

"Come — come !"  he  exclaimed.  "What's  all  this 
about?" 

She  clung  to  him  in  supplication. 

"Uncle,  uncle — surely  you  have  heard  what  the 
people  are  saying  about  me?  They  say  I  am  bad 
— I  have  done  wrong.  They  say  that  Lizbeth's  baby 
is  mine.  I  have  been  insulted  before  all  the  girls 
down  at  Menteith's.  Oh,  uncle! — the  shame  of  it 
is  burning  me  up.  I  feel  as  if  I  were  really  guilty. 
You  must  tell  them  that  I  am  not  bad.  You  will  tell 
them,  uncle.  Oh,  I  know  you  will  tell  them,  for 
I  have  never  done  anything  wrong:  I  have  only  tried 


248      The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

to  help  you,  as  you  wished  me  to.  Please,  uncle, 
please  tell  them.  If  you  don't,  I  think  I  shall  die. 

"I  have  obeyed  you  always — even  in  this — but 
you  did  not  let  me  know  that  it  would  mean  this — > 
what  they  would  infer.  And  I — I  never  thought. 

"I  can't  bear  it.    Oh, — I  can't  bear  it." 

The  cry  of  that  innocent  heart  for  justice  would 
have  met  with  a  feeling  of  response  from  a  beast; 
but  Colin  Jackson,  coldly  calculating,  had  already 
anticipated  the  outburst  and  had  been  gradually  pre- 
paring himself  to  meet  it:  his  only  surprise  was  that 
it  had  not  taken  place  sooner. 

He  raised  Kathie  and  set  her  on  the  couch. 

"Tut-tut,  woman!  I  am  surprised  at  you,  work- 
ing yourself  into  a  state  like  this  for  nothing.  Can't 
you  see  that  it  is  only  inquisitiveness  on  their  part, 
and  nothing  more ;  that  they  are  just  trying  to  guess 
at  something  they  do  not  understand?  You  are  do- 
ing the  very  thing  that  would  make  them  think  they 
are  right  in  their  surmise.  Keep  your  mouth  shut 
and  say  nothing — absolutely  nothing — as  you  prom- 
ised you  would;  and  they  will  be  none  the  wiser. 
Keep  out  of  their  way.  In  two  months'  time  this 
will  be  all  over;  Lizbeth  will  be  in  Ceylon  and 
married,  and  you  will  be  free  from  your  charge. 

"Surely  you  are  not  the  one  to  spoil  our  plans 
for  the  sake  of  a  few  idle  words  by  a  few  idle  wo- 
men? What  difference  does  it  make  what  they  say, 
anyway?  You  know  within  yourself  that  it  is  un- 


Changing  Lights  249 

true.  You  are  the  same  now  as  you  were  before 
they  spoke.  In  a  few  months,  they  will  be  saying 
something  else  about  somebody  else,  and  will  have 
forgotten  all  about  you. 

"Lizbeth  has  a  far  harder  part  to  play  than  you 
have,  yet  she  is  doing  it  without  a  grumble,  just  be- 
cause she  vowed  she  would.  You  made  a  vow  too, 
— a  Jackson  never  goes  back  on  her  word.  Fie, 
Kathie! 

"It  isn't  for  long  now.  Stick  to  your  promise. 
I  have  no  patience  with  people  who  don't  know 
their  own  minds  two  minutes.  You  knew  at  the  time 
that  it  wasn't  a  picnic  we  were  arranging. 

"For  shame,  to  trouble  me  over  these  silly  notions, 
when  you  know  I  am  so  harassed  over  more  im- 
portant matters." 

This  was  meant  as  a  dismissal  of  the  subject; 
but,  as  an  apparent  afterthought,  he  added: 

"By  the  by — here  is  something  I  got  for  you  when 
I  was  at  the  Coast  last  month." 

He  threw  a  little  package  into  Kathie's  lap,  and 
went  out,  leaving  her  alone. 

Kathie  undid  the  wrappings.  It  was  a  gold  locket, 
with  a  fine  linked  chain.  She  opened  the  locket  me- 
chanically. It  contained  a  scroll,  in  the  small,  skil- 
ful penmanship  of  which  Colin  Jackson  was  so  just- 
ly proud:  letters  of  bright  scarlet  on  a  background 
of  black: — "I  swear,  that  until  I  am  released  from 
this  vow  by  my  uncle,  Colin  Jackson,  or  until  my 


250      The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

cousin,  Elizabeth  Jackson,  is  married,  I  will  not 
divulge  to  anyone  what  I  know  regarding  the  par- 
entage of  Elizabeth's  child. — So  help  me,  God." 

As  she  read  the  remembrance  of  her  vow,  the 
words  seared  into  her  brain  like  the  brand  of  a  red- 
hot  iron.  She  groaned  at  her  first  folly  in  having 
given  way  to  her  uncle's  coercion :  but  now  that  she 
had  sworn  to  secrecy,  that  vow  was  a  promise  to  her 
Maker  and  it  would  have  to  be  carried  out  and 
obeyed  as  a  command  from  God  himself,  even 
should  it  bring  suffering,  pain  and  dishonour.  That 
was  how  she  had  been  trained  by  her  father  to  look 
upon  a  vow.  There  was  no  evading  it — there  was 
no  going  back.  It  must — it  would  be  kept. 

"God  give  me  strength  and  courage,"  she  ex- 
claimed piteously,  as  she  hung  the  gold  chain  round 
her  neck  and  slipped  the  locket  into  her  bosom. 

****** 
Next  day  when  she  arose,  there  was  a  yearning 

in  her  heart  for  a  word  of  comfort  from  someone 
— even  a  look  of  sympathy.  But  there  seemed  to 
be  none  to  whom  she  could  turn.  It  was  the  one 
day  in  the  week  which  had  been  set  apart,  so  long 
ag°>  by  her  and  Alick,  as  their  trysting  time;  and 
she  longed  as  she  had  never  longed  before  just  for 
a  word  from  him  that  he  trusted  her  still.  Even 
a  glimpse  of  his  figure  in  the  distance  would  have 
satisfied,  for,  under  the  shadow  of  her  vow,  she  had 
refrained  from  that  weekly  tryst  since  her  coming 


Changing  Lights  251 

back,  and,  during  all  the  weary  months  of  her  en- 
forced absence,  she  had  not  communicated  with  him 
in  any  way. 

Away  out  there  on  the  ranch,  she  had  not  heard 
that  there  was  a  new  School  Principal  at  Vernock. 

As  the  hours  of  that  day  wore  on,  she  could  not 
contain  herself  longer.  She  hushed  Lizbeth's  child 
to  sleep,  placed  it  in  its  little  cot,  and  stole  away  to 
the  Lake.  With  beating  heart  and  scanning  eyes  she 
waited  for  him  whom  she  had  known  as  her  lover — 
as  he  had  once  waited  for  her.  Hour  after  hour 
sped  quickly  on,  but  he  did  not  come  to  her.  Her 
hopes  sank  and  her  soul  became  loaded  down  with 
sorrow.  At  first  she  feared — then  fear  grew  to  a 
surety — that  he  had  been  tried  too  long  and  had, 
human-like,  wearied  in  the  waiting  and  had  gone 
away  out  of  her  life.  She  looked  to  see  if  the  note 
she  had  left  for  him  was  still  in  the  crevice  under 
the  bark  of  the  log,  but  the  bark  was  peeled  away 
and  the  note  was  gone. 

Surely  then,  she  reasoned,  when  he  read  her 
message  he  would  understand.  Surely  he  would 
wait  and  trust.  He  had  promised  to  do  that  when 
first  she  had  timidly  opened  to  the  warmth  and 
strength  of  his  ardorous  wooing,  when  for  all  Time 
and  all  Eternity  she  had  given  him  her  unblem- 
ished love. 

She  would  have  trusted  him,  and  stood  by  him 
in  the  face  of  all  the  world. 


252      The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

Then  Kathie  did  as  Alick  had  done — it  was  her 
last  flickering  hope.  She  thought  of  the  dear,  old 
people  who  had  been  so  kind  to  her  and  who  had 
shown  their  love  for  her  before  she  had  gone  away. 
She  hurried  over  to  the  ranch  at  Broadacres. 

Her  hand  was  on  the  door,  ready  to  push  it  open 
and  to  go  in  unannounced,  as  had  been  her  privi- 
lege, when  Zella,  the  maid,  blocked  her  entrance: 
not  timidly  and  afraid,  as  she  once  had  been,  but 
bold  and  impudent,  and  altogether  fearless. 

"Zella — I  wish  to  see  Mrs.  Gray,"  exclaimed 
Kathie  quickly.  "I  have  only  lately  got  home 
again." 

"Mrs.  Gray,  she  not  home,  see!"  came  the  cold 
reply. 

"Oh,  Zella!  That  isn't  true,  you  know.  I  saw 
Mrs.  Gray  go  indoors  as  I  came  along  the  path  from 
the  main  road." 

"Well, — Missy  Jackson,  you  think  maybe  you 
know.  But  she  no  be  in  to  you — see!  She  tell  me 
tell  you — see!" 

Once  again  Kathie's  face  flushed  scarlet  and  she 
became  overwhelmed  with  the  shame  which  she  was 
bearing  in  her  cousin's  stead.  But  this  time  only 
she  was  aware  of  her  embarrassment,  for  her  eyes 
were  looking  into  the  woodwork  of  a  door  tightly 
closed  against  her. 

Her  last  hope  was  gone.  All  who  had  loved  her 
now  believed  in  her  guilt  and  shunned  her.  They 


Changing  Lights  253 

did  not  love  her  any  more.  Insulted,  ostracised, — 
and  all  because  of  an  innocent  mind,  a  kindly  heart 
and  an  anxiety  to  be  useful  to  those  who  had  given 
her  a  home  when  she  had  none: — there  was  nothing 
left  for  her  now  but  the  ashes  of  dead  memories, 
a  broken  heart  and  a  life  of  sorrow-laden  drudgery. 

With  despair  in  her  face  and  lagging  footsteps, 
she  retraced  her  way  to  her  uncle's  ranch. 

A  plaintive  little  cry  came  from  the  cot  beside 
the  fireplace  in  the  dining  room.  She  went  over, 
lifted  up  the  innocent  cause  of  all  her  sorrow,  kissed 
it  tenderly  and  carried  it  out  into  the  open. 

She  sat  down  on  a  bench,  under  the  very  tree 
where  the  leave-taking  of  Lizbeth  and  Crawford 
had  taken  place,  and  she  tried  to  hush  the  little  child 
to  sleep. 

Everything  was  quiet  and  there  was  no  one  in 
sight,  until  Meg  Shaw,  that  happy-go-lucky,  easy- 
going farm  lass,  came  out  of  the  doorway  of  the 
dairy,  drying  her  hands  on  her  haunches.  As  soon 
as  she  espied  Kathie,  she  sauntered  over. 

"I've  never  seen  this  wonderful  bairn  yet,  Kathie. 
Let's  ha'e  a  squint  at  it?" 

Kathie  drew  back. 

"No,  no,  Kathie !  I'm  not  like  the  fools  you  ran 
up  against  last  night,"  she  remarked,  noting  Kath- 
ie's  timidity. 

She  opened  up  the  cashmere  shawl  and  scrutinised 
the  child  carefully. 


254      The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

"Uhm!  It's  no'  very  like  you,"  she  remarked 
bluntly.  She  scratched  her  head.  "Do  you  feed 
it  yoursel'  ?" 

"No,"  said  Kathie,  "I  don't." 

"Huh! — I  thought  so.  They  say  bairns  look 
mair  like  their  mithers  when  their  mithers  feed  them 
themsel's.  If  I  only  kent  its  faither,  maybe  I  could 
tell  better  who  it's  like." 

Meg  spoke  with  the  confident  air  of  one  who  knew 
more  than  she  ventured  to  let  out. 

"Your  uncle  and  the  rest  o'  them  turned  mighty 
good  to  you  when  you  got  tangled  up  in  this 
trouble,"  she  continued,  with  a  jerk  of  her  head. 
"Many  a  man  would  ha'e  shown  you  the  door.  Some 
dae  that  wi'  their  ain  daughters,  and  often  they 
are  the  very  men  who  are  misbehavin'  themsel's 
at  the  same  time." 

Kathie  could  feel  her  resentment  rising  at  Meg's 
critical  observations,  but  she  tried  to  hide  it. 

"It  was  real  nice  o'  Lizbeth  too,  going  away  to 
nurse  you  for  such  a  lang  time,  especially  when 
young  Menteith  was  hanging  roon'  her  skirts.  It 
was  the  brawest  thing  she  ever  did.  In  fact,  it  was 
the  only  braw  thing  she  ever  did  in  her  life — if  she 
did  it." 

Kathie  rose,  but  Meg  pushed  her  back  into  her 
seat. 

"Oh — sit  still  and  don't  excite  yoursel',"  she  went 
on  in  her  rough,  Scotch  way,  but  not  unkindly.  "I 


Changing  Lights  255 

kent  Lizbeth  before  you  kent  her  and  I'm  up  to  the 
maist  o'  her  tricks.  I  ken  too  that  there's  little  love 
lost  between  you  and  her — especially  on  her  side — 
so  you  needna  pretend  to  be  so  terrible  annoyed  at 
what  I'm  sayin'.  It's  for  the  good  o'  your  health 
onyway. 

"She  wants  to  marry  Tom  Menteith.  And  if  looks 
go  for  onything,  Menteith  wants  to  marry  her.  If 
it's  a  fair  question,  Kathie — when  is  it  going  to 
come  off?" 

"In  two  months,  I  believe,"  said  Kathie  unguard- 
edly. 

"And  what's  going  to  happen  then?"  asked  Meg. 

"I  don't  quite  understand,"  said  Kathie. 

"Who's  going  to  look  after  the  bairn  then?" 

"Look  here,  Meg,"  returned  Kathie,  somewhat 
ruffled,  "I  don't  pretend  to  know  what  you  are  driv- 
ing at  and  you  have  no  right  to  question  me  in  this 
way,  at  all.  I'm  not  in  a  fit  condition  to  stand  very 
much  more  of  it  at  present.  Will  you  please  go 
away?  I  wish  to  be  alone." 

Tears  struggled  to  Kathie's  eyes,  and  Meg's  soft, 
honest  heart  melted  at  the  sight  of  them. 

"Kathie,"  she  said,  sitting  down  beside  her, 
"when  you  first  came  here  I  didna  like  you,  because 
it  meant  me  lookin'  for  anither  job  with  maybe  a 
month  or  two  idle,  which  I  could  ill  afford,  for  I 
had  my  widow  mither  to  look  after, — but  since  that 
time  I've  learned  a  wheen  things  and  I  don't  mislike 


256      The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

you  ony  mair.  I'm  sorry  for  you  and — I  like  you 
forby.  But  you  are  one  o'  the  kind  that  will  suffer 
and  slave  and  starve,  and  go  in  tatters,  just  because 
you  imagine  it  is  a  duty  you  owe.  You  fancy  every- 
body is  as  honest  as  you  are  yoursel' ;  and  you  never 
admit  the  truth  to  yoursel'  even  when  you  ken  you 
are  being  imposed  on. 

"I've  seen  one  or  two  like  you  before  in  the  Auld 
Country — although  they're  getting  mighty  scarce 
even  there; — but  all  the  same,  your  kind  gets  the 
worst  o'  it  every  time. 

"Colin  Jackson  has  been  imposin'  on  you  since 
the  first  day  you  came  here.  He's  a  liar  and  a  cheat 
— and  the  whole  Valley  kens  it.  Maybe  you  feel 
like  askin'  me  why  I  work  for  him  then, — but  I'm 
workin'  for  him  just  because  it  suits  me  at  the  minute 
to  work  for  him — that's  a'." 

Kathie  looked  in  helpless  remonstrance  at  the  ro- 
bust, indignant  girl  before  her. 

"Oh, — fine  I  ken  he's  your  uncle.  Mair's  the 
pity  I  Lizbeth  is  his  right-hand  helper — in  fact,  I 
wouldna  wonder  if  it  is  the  ither  way  aboot — she's 
the  boss  and  he's  the  helper. 

"But  they  can  scheme  and  plan  as  much  as  they 
like,  and  they  can  fool  you,  and  Tom  Menteith,  and 
auld  Menteith,  the  kirk  folks,  and  a'  the  rest  o' 
them: — but  here's  one  they  can't  fool  so  easy." 

Kathie  sat  and  stared  before  her  in  dreamy  stupe- 
faction, as  she  held  the  child  tightly  to  her  bosom. 


Changing  Lights  257 

Meg  went  on. 

"That  bairn  is  as  like  you  as  it's  like  me — and 
I'm  no'  its  mither.  It  is  as  much  my  bairn  as  it  is 
yours." 

"I  cannot  listen  to  any  more,"  protested  Kathie, 
rising  and  holding  out  her  hand  as  if  to  ward  off 
something. 

Meg  pulled  her  to  her  seat  again. 

"Sit  doon,  lassie.  I'm  no'  finished  yet.  It's  bad 
manners  to  interrupt  when  folk  are  talkin'.  As  I 
was  going  to  say — that  bairn  is  a  Jackson  through 
and  through — with  a  touch  in  it  o'  somebody  else 
I  ha'e  seen  before.  Look  at  it's  een,  and  tell  me 
it's  no'  like  Lizbeth!  Look  at  the  lobes  o'  its  ears, 
look  at  its  chin,  ay !  and  look  at  that  birthmark  on  the 
back  o'  its  wee  hand — then  tell  me  you've  forgotten 
what  Bob  Crawford  was  like!  There!"  she  con- 
cluded, preparing  to  return  to  the  dairy.  "I've  said 
my  say,  and  I'm  done — only,  you're  a  damned  fool 
that  didna  see  it  for  yoursel'  long  before  this." 

Kathie  was  stunned  by  the  suddenness  of  the  in- 
telligence, and  the  more  she  looked  at  the  child  the 
more  she  became  convinced  of  its  strong  resem- 
blance to  Crawford. 

She  could  now  forgive  Tom  Menteith  for  what  he 
had  said  of  her  to  the  fruit  gatherers,  knowing  that 
if  this  were  really  true,  he  was  being  duped  and 
tricked  as  well  as  she.  Further  than  forgiving 
him,  however,  she  refused  to  allow  her  mind  to  go. 


258      The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

Her  emotions  were  stupefied.  She  deliberately 
thrust  all  reasoning  aside.  Crawford  or  Men- 
teith — it  was  of  no  moment  to  her.  In  two  months 
or  so,  she  would  be  released  from  her  vow,  and  then 
she  would  be  done  with  them  all.  She  would  go 
away  to  some  place  where  no  one  would  know  her, 
and  start  afresh  to  work  out  her  own  salvation. 
But,  meantime,  and  until  that  time,  her  vow  held 
good.  Come  what  may,  she  would  keep  it. 


CHAPTER  SEVENTEEN 
Old  Acquaintances 

MEG  SHAW  was  hurrying  along  the  narrow 
trail  leading  to  the  little,  old,  vine-covered 
bungalow  where  her  mother  lived,  at  the  edge  of  the 
Lake.  She  generally  ran  over  there  in  the  evening 
when  she  had  half  an  hour  to  spare,  in  order  to  ex- 
change the  gossip  of  the  day  and  read  the  chief 
items  of  the  previous  day's  newspaper,  for,  like  all 
Scots,  Meg  and  her  mother  were  deeply  interested 
in  the  affairs  of  their  own  and  all  other  countries. 

Meg  was  trudging  through  the  sticky  mud  which 
always  lay  in  that  shady,  dismal  part  of  the  way  for 
days  after  a  rain-fall:  more  a  swamp  than  a  trail. 
Her  mind  was  dwelling  on  nothing  in  particular, 
and,  when  a  tall  figure  stepped  out  from  behind  a 
tree  and  slapped  her  across  the  shoulders  as  she 
passed,  her  heart  jumped. 

"Hullo,  Meg!"  cried  a  hearty  voice. 

She  turned  round  quickly.  There  was  no  mistak- 
ing the  owner  of  that  voice,  nor  was  there  any  mis- 
taking the  man  who  stood  beside  her :  not  even  in  the 
gathering  darkness  of  the  evening  with  the  accel- 
erated gloom  caused  by  the  close,  overhanging  trees. 

259 


260      The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

"My  God!"  she  exclaimed.    "Crawford!" 

He  nodded  and  snapped  his  eyes. 

"  'The  girl  guessed  right  the  very  first  time';  up 
to  the  top  of  the  class,  Meg." 

"But  I  never  thought  ye'd  come  back  here,"  she 
said.  "Why,  man!  it's  not  so  very  many  months 
since  ye  went  away." 

"Well ! — did  you  think  I  would  stay  there  after  I 
got  the  message  you  sent  me?"  asked  Crawford. 

"Didn't  you  ask  me  to  let  you  know  quick  if  any- 
thing extraordinary  was  going  on  at  Jackson's?" 

"Yep!"  said  Crawford.  "And  I'm  darned  glad 
you  did  too.  But,  say!  Come  on  under  the  trees 
here.  I  don't  want  to  be  seen — not  just  yet. 

"Meg — what  did  you  mean  by  that  message?" 

"Och! — you  had  better  ask  Lizbeth  aboot  that; 
she'll  tell  you — maybe,"  was  the  tantalising  rejoin- 
der. "Have  you  no'  been  to  visit  her  yet?" 

"No,  not  yet!  Nobody  knows  I'm  here :  not  even 
the  police.  I'm  staying  in  Roanstone  for  quietness. 
I  only  arrived  in  the  Valley  from  Vancouver  yes- 
terday. 

"Now,  Meg — I  know  nothing.  Tell  me  all  about 
it.  There's  a  good  kid!" 

"Don't  kid  me,  Bob  Crawford,  for  you  can't  do 
ft.  Keep  your  kidding  for  them  that  like  it. 

"But  there's  no'  much  to  tell,"  continued  Meg. 
"The  spicy  bits  have  been  told  so  often  that  they 
have  lost  their  nippy  taste. 


Old  Acquaintances  261 

"Well ! — first  and  foremost,  Tom  Menteith  came 
home  the  day  you  went  away,  and  Lizbeth  is  follow- 
ing him  out  to  Ceylon  in  a  week  or  so  to  marry  him. 
He  goes  the  end  of  this  week  I  think." 

"Good  Lord !    You  don't  mean " 

"Don't  interrupt,  Bob.  I'm  no'  through  yet. 
There's  a  bairn  on  the  scene,  and,  if  I  may  say  it, 
that  shouldna, — it's  mighty  like  yersel'." 

Crawford's  lips  relaxed  and  His  face  softened. 

"Poor  little  beggar!"  he  exclaimed. 

"Ay, — poor  little  beggar  is  right,"  answered 
Meg.  "But  this  is  the  first  time  I  ever  heard  you 
wi'  a  tear  in  your  voice.  Maybe  you've  been  drink- 


in'.' 


"No,  no,  Meg!  I  have  had  no  time  for  that, 
even  if  I  had  the  inclination.  Go  on !" 

"Go  on,  yersel',"  exclaimed  Meg  pertly. 

"Lizbeth  is  going  Scot-free  as  usual.  Kathie 
Jackson — the  lassie  that  put  that  mark  on  your 
brow  and  spoiled  your  good  looks — is  nursin'  your 
bairn  and  is  takin'  the  blame  of  it  besides." 

"My  God!  Meg — what  do  you  mean?  Am  I  be- 
ing blamed  for  this?" 

"Some  folks  are  blamin'  you;  others  are  blamin' 
Mr.  Simpson,  the  School  Principal, — but  the  women 
folks,  woman-like,  are  blamin'  her." 

"Say! — I'm  all  at  sea,  Meg,"  put  in  Crawford, 
in  bewilderment.  "I  don't  get  the  hang  of  this  thing 
at  all." 


262      The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

"No! — I  never  expected  you  would.  You're  as 
thick  in  the  haid  as  the  rest  o'  them. 

"First  of  all,  that  bairn  is  yours,  and  you  can't 
deny  it,  for  it's  your  born  image.  And,  what's  more, 
Lizbeth  is  its  mother." 

Meg  watched  him  closely  and  saw  that  what  she 
had  surmised  was  only  too  true. 

"So,  you  see, — Meg  Shaw  isn't  so  green  as  she  is 
cabbage  looking.  Lizbeth  and  Kathie  were  away 
from  here  all  winter  and  most  of  the  summer;  and 
before  they  came  back,  old  Split-the-Pea  Jackson  had 
all  the  gossips  of  Vernock  busy.  When  they  did 
come  back,  Kathie  had  the  bairn.  The  Jacksons 
have  that  lassie  in  their  clutches,  that's  sure,  and 
she's  no'  wise  enough  to  see  it  hersel'. 

"It  is  all  being  kept  dark  from  Tom  Menteith. 
Colin  Jackson  is  in  debt  up  to  the  neck,  and  I 
think  he  is  relyin'  on  Lizbeth  pullin'  him  oot  after 
she  gets  married.  How  they  are  ever  going  to  man- 
age to  straighten  it  all  oot  afterwards,  the  Lord  only 
knows  and  the  de'il  has  no  business." 

Crawford  had  been  standing  staring  at  Meg  in 
sheer  amazement  as  she  gave  him  the  whole  story. 

"Meg, — do  you  know  that  you  have  been  talking 
sheer  bunk  for  the  last  five  minutes?"  he  asked  sar- 
castically. "You're  clean  nutty,  woman.  There's 
a  bee  buzzing  in  your  head.  Wake  up  1"  he  urged. 

"Maybe  there  is  a  bee  buzzin',"  retorted  Meg, 


Old  Acquaintances  263 

"but  I'm  no*  the  one  that's  going  to  be  stung,  any- 
way." 

"But  is  all  this  the  real  dope,  Meg?"  he  inquired. 

"It's  the  best  I  can  make  of  it,  Bob.  If  you  can 
improve  on  it,  go  ahead." 

"Well,  I  guess  I  must  not  see  Lizbeth,"  argued 
Crawford,  "not  just  yet.  But  Tom  Menteith  won't 
get  her — not  so  long  as  I'm  alive,  that's  sure." 

"What's  to  hinder  him?" 

"The  youngster  will.  Do  you  think  he  would 
marry  her  if  he  knew  of  it?" 

"It's  hard  to  say,"  retorted  Meg,  "men  are  such 
a  pack  of  damned  fools.  What  are  you  going  to  do 
if  he  takes  her,  bairn  and  all?" 

"There's  one  thing  I  will  do,  Meg, — and  you  can 
bet  your  sweet  life  it'll  put  a  bigger  crimp  on  this 
marriage  than  was  ever  put  on  anything  you  ever 
heard  of  I  I  can't  tell  you  what  it  is " 

The  sound  of  voices  arrested  his  talk.  The  fad- 
ing light  was  blotted  out  from  the  far  end  of  the 
double  row  of  trees  and  a  man  and  woman  saun- 
tered on  toward  them.  They  were  Lizbeth  and  Tom 
Menteith,  out  having  an  evening  airing.  Tom  was 
tapping  his  leggings  with  his  riding  switch  and  was 
twitting  Lizbeth  about  getting  mud  on  her  shoes. 

"I  think  I  had  better  carry  you,  my  dear,"  said 
the  man's  voice. 

"No,  indeed  you  won't  1"  braved  the  woman.    "I 


264      The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

am  not  afraid  of  mud:  I'm  well  used  to  it.  I've 
been  among  it  more  or  less  all  my  life." 

It  was  an  unintended  double  entendre,  but  Tom 
Menteith  was  too  much  in  love  to  notice  it.  Liz- 
beth  raised  her  skirts  high  and  daintily,  and  Tom 
tapped  her  playfully  above  the  ankle  and  whispered 
to  her. 

She  gave  a  rippling  laugh,  and  it  was  only  then 
that  Crawford  recognised  them.  The  hiss  of  his 
breath  informed  Meg  Shaw  of  the  recognition  and 
of  the  excitement  under  which  Crawford  was  la- 
bouring. Meg  pulled  him  into  the  deeper  shadows. 

When  Lizbeth  and  the  young  tea-planter  were 
almost  opposite,  Tom  caught  her  up  in  his  arms  and 
kissed  her  vigorously.  She  immediately  returned 
his  caresses  with  a  sigh  of  abandoned  pleasure.  A 
noise  in  the  shadows  caused  them  to  break  apart 
quickly.  An  old  wooden  rail  which  Crawford  had 
gripped  desperately  had  given  way  under  his  pres- 
sure. Words  were  on  his  lips,  but  Meg  Shaw 
clapped  her  hand  over  his  mouth. 

"Shut  up !     Don't  be  a  fool !"  she  whispered. 

In  the  middle  of  the  trail,  Lizbeth  clung  to  Tom 
Menteith's  arm. 

"Why  I — they  are  only  two  lovers  like  ourselves 
— silly  little  sweetheart,"  said  the  latter.  "Don't 
you  know  that  in  the  evening  around  here  every  tree 
is  a  pair  tree?"  And  with  the  little  jest,  he  turned 
her  fears  aside. 


Old  Acquaintances  265 

They  wandered  on,  and  the  crisis  was  over. 

"You  nearly  put  your  foot  in  it  that  time,"  re- 
marked Meg. 

"What  if  I  did?"  replied  Crawford  truculently. 
"I  have  no  scrap  with  young  Menteith — he's  a  gen- 
tleman:— all  the  same — she's  mine.  But  he  is  wel- 
come to  her  for  an  hour  or  two  longer,"  he  contin- 
ued. 

"Do  you  mean  that,  Bob?  Do  you  really  mean 
to  say  you  would  have  anything  more  to  do  with 
her  after  all  this?" 

"What  do  you  think  I  came  all  the  way  back  from 
Australia  for?  Just  to  watch  the  show!  Nothing 
stirring! 

"See  here,  Meg!  I  made  Lizbeth's  cousin  suffer 
once  and  she's  not  going  to  suffer  again  on  my  ac- 
count if  I  can  help  it.  That's  one  reason  why  I'm 
going  to  butt  in. 

"Tom  Menteith  is  too  good  a  sport  to  be  allowed 
to  marry  Lizbeth  under  present  conditions.  That's 
another  reason. 

"Reason  number  three: — I  love  Lizbeth — and  I 
would  love  her  if  she  were  the  devil  himself. 

"Now,  you  run  along  and  see  your  mother.  Don't 
mention  to  anybody  that  I'm  here.  If  I  need  you 
any  time,  I  know  where  to  get  you. 

"Meg, — you're  a  decent  sort  of  a  scout,  and  I'm 
darned  grateful  to  you." 


266      The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

"You  don't  look  it,"  remarked  Meg  as  she  left 
him  still  standing  there  under  the  trees. 

Crawford  remained  for  a  long  time  in  deep 
thought.  He  was  in  a  quandary  as  to  what  was  best 
to  do.  Should  he  leave  everything  over  until  the 
morrow,  then  endeavour  to  see  Kathie  and  find  out 
what  she  knew?  Should  he  way-lay  Tom  Menteith 
to-night  and  thrash  the  matter  out  with  him,  or 
should  he  wait  for  the  first  favourable  opportunity 
of  confronting  Lizbeth  and  surprising  her? 

But,  as  his  impatience  would  not  permit  him  to 
wait,  he  moved  slowly  toward  Jackson's  ranch,  and 
sat  on  a  fence  near  the  house,  dangling  his  legs, 
watching  the  shadows  on  the  window  blinds  and  lis- 
tening drowsily  to  the  hum  of  voices  and  the  sound 
of  Lizbeth's  laughter.  He  was  in  no  hurry;  the 
night  was  fine,  and  Tom  Menteith  was  still  inside. 

At  last  the  front  door  opened  and  Lizbeth  came 
out  to  the  veranda  to  kiss  her  lover  good  night. 

Soon  all  was  dark  again.  But  the  sound  of  foot- 
steps on  the  Avenue  told  Crawford  that  Tom  Men- 
teith was  coming  his  way.  He  slid  off  the  fence 
and  walked  slowly  down  the  roadway  in  front  of 
the  man  who  had  unwittingly  usurped  him;  and  it 
was  not  until  they  reached  the  main  road  that  the 
two  came  abreast. 

Several  years  had  passed  since  Tom  Menteith  had 
last  seen  Crawford,  but  the  familiar  figure  of  the 
picturesque  fellow  was  inextricably  entwined  in 


Old  Acquaintances  267 

Menteith's  boyish  memories  and  he  recognised  the 
other  in  an  instant. 

"By  jove !"  he  cried,  peering  into  the  face  of  the 
man  beside  him.  "Bob  Crawford,  as  sure  as  I'm 
alive  1" 

He  held  out  his  hand  and  shook  the  other's 
heartily. 

"Man,  man — I  heard  you  were  in  Australia.  Got 
tired  of  it,  eh ! — and  back  to  the  old  haunts.  Well, 
Bob,  if  you  want  a  job,  I'll  bet  the  dad  will  place 
you  the  minute  you  show  your  face,  for  he  talks 
well  of  you — sinner  and  all  as  he  says  you  are." 

Crawford  was  overwhelmed  by  the  sincerity  of 
the  greeting  of  his  young  friend  and  was  almost 
tempted  to  evade  the  issue: — at  least  for  the  time 
being.  But,  with  the  darkness  and  the  quiet,  he  knew 
he  would  seldom  have  such  a  favourable  opportu- 
nity. 

"Thanks,  Tom!  You  have  some  memory  for 
faces  and  figures.  I  would  not  have  known  you. 
You  were  only  a  bit  of  a  kid  when  you  went  away. 
You're  a  full-grown  man  now." 

"Yes,  Bob — a  few  years  abroad  make  a  differ- 
ence in  a  fellow,"  said  Menteith  genially.  "What 
went  wrong  with  the  sheep-farming  in  Australia, 
though?  Didn't  you  like  it?" 

"Oh,  I  liked  it  all  right  enough,"  replied  Craw- 
ford. "Guess  I'll  be  back  there  in  another  couple 


268      The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

of  months.  I  just  took  a  trip  over  about  a  little 
business  matter  I  wanted  to  straighten  out." 

Tom  laughed. 

"Ha,  ha!  Bob — I'll  bet  I  know  what  it  is  too. 
Looking  for  a  wife!  And  you  might  do  worse  too, 
old  man.  A  wife  must  be  a  mighty  big  comfort 
over  there  in  that  bachelor-land." 

"Maybe  I  am,  Tom.  And,  as  you  say, — I  might 
do  worse." 

The  two  walked  along  the  road  together. 

"They  tell  me  you  are  on  the  same  tack  yourself," 
continued  Crawford  cautiously. 

"Well — not  exactly,  Bob!  On  the  same  course, 
maybe,  but  on  a  different  tack." 

"I  might  not  have  been  in  such  a  gol-durned 
hurry  myself,"  pursued  Crawford,  "only  there's  a 
little  shaver  on  the  scene  and  it  is  hardly  fair  to  stay 
away  under  these  conditions." 

"Ah,  Bob,  Bob !"  put  in  the  younger  man  admon- 
ishingly.  "You  always  were  a  harum-scarum  devil. 
But  it  was  the  manly  thing  for  you  to  come  back 
and  face  the  music  though;  and  I  admire  you  for 
it.  Who  is  the  lady,  if  I  may  ask?" 

"Oh, — her  up  at  the  farm !"  replied  Crawford  in 
an  offhand  way. 

"You  don't  say!"  was  Menteith's  rejoinder.  He, 
like  most  young  men,  was  fond  of  a  little  bit  of 
scandal  told  on  the  sly.  "Well,  by  gad,  Bob ! — she's 
a  peach  what  I've  seen  of  her,  and  I  don't  wonder 


Old  Acquaintances  269 

at  you  coming  all  the  way  from  Australia  to  claim 
her.  I  would  do  the  same  myself." 

"Oh,  she's  a  good  enough  looker,"  conceded 
Crawford. 

"There  are  all  kinds  of  stories  floating  around 
about  her,"  said  Menteith.  "If  we  are  to  believe 
all  we  hear,  she  is  able  to  tell  our  past  and  foretell 
our  future;  and  conjure  up  ghosts  and  goblins, 
witches,  demons  and  sprites,  and  do  all  kinds  of 
uncanny  things — all  simply  by  striking  up  a  few  bars 
on  an  old  violin.  I  did  hear  her  play  once,  and  I'll 
never  forget  it.  It  was  wonderful.  Say!  I  should 
like  to  hear  her  again  sometime,  for  she's  a  perfect 
witch  on  the  instrument  and  can  draw  you  along, 
against  your  will,  even  if  you  are  a  mile  away.  Be- 
fore you  go  away  with  her,  Bob,  bring  her  over  and 
get  her  to  play  for  us  down  home.  Will  you?" 

"Easy,  Tom!  Don't  you  think  you  are  a  bit 
mixed  up  in  the  women?" 

"How  do  you  mean?  Didn't  you  say  it  was  the 
girl  at  Jackson's  who  had  the  child?" 

"Yep!" 

"Well — there  are  only  two  of  them  at  Jackson's. 
I'm  mighty  certain  Elizabeth  isn't  a  violinist," 
laughed  Tom  Menteith. 

"She  might  not  be  a  fiddler,  but  there's  nothing 
to  prevent  her  being  a  mother,  is  there,  Tom?" 

Menteith  looked  at  Crawford  curiously,  without 


270      The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

replying,  while  Crawford  seemed  to  be  interested 
in  his  own  thoughts  for  a  brief  moment. 

"It's  a  queer  kind  of  a  world  this,"  went  on  Craw- 
ford at  last.  "Sometimes  it  is  hard  to  find  a  father 
for  a  youngster,  but  generally  you  can  lay  your 
finger  on  the  mother." 

"That's  so  I"  agreed  Menteith. 

"What  would  you  say  if  somebody  tried  to  make 
you  believe  that  Liz  Jackson  was  the  mother  of  that 
baby  up  at  the  ranch?" 

"I  would  push  the  suggestion  back  down  the  man's 
throat,"  retorted  Menteith. 

"And  what  if  the  man  could  prove  it?" 

"Look  here,  Crawford,"  put  in  Menteith  angrily, 
"I  used  to  like  you,  but  either  you  have  been  drink- 
ing or  you  are  trying  to  make  trouble.  What's 
your  game?  What  are  you  driving  at?" 

"Just  what  I've  been  trying  to  tell  you,  Tom." 

"Crawford,  you're  a  damned  liar,  and  you  know 
it,"  flamed  Menteith,  his  temper  giving  way  as 
he  stepped  up  in  front  of  his  companion.  "Take 
back  what  you've  said,  and  don't  dare  to  breathe 
her  name  long  with  your  own,  or,  by  God,  I'll — . 
Take  it  back,  will  you?"  he  commanded,  opening 
and  closing  his  hands  excitedly. 

Crawford  watched  him  in  a  lazy  kind  of  way, 
standing  with  his  legs  slightly  apart  and  twisting  a 
piece  of  straw  between  his  fingers. 

"Crawford,  you  are  asking  for  it,  and,  by  God, 


Old  Acquaintances  271 

you  shall  have  it,"  cried  Tom  Menteith,  rushing 
at  him  impetuously. 

Without  any  apparent  effort,  Crawford  caught 
him  by  both  arms  and  almost  lifted  him  against  a 
tree. 

"Don't  be  a  fool,  man!"  he  muttered.  "I  could 
twist  you  like  this  piece  of  straw.  I  have  no  quar- 
rel with  you,  Tom,  so,  damn  it,  forget  that  part  of 
it.  Do  you  think  I  would  say  what  I  have  said  if 
I  couldn't  produce  the  goods?  That  youngster  up 
there  is  mine.  Liz  is  its  mother.  I'm  here  to  take 
them  both  back  with  me  to  Australia.  Now,  the 
best  thing  you  can  do  is  to  beat  it  quickly  and  quietly 
away  for  a  while,  until  the  wind  has  died  down." 

He  released  his  younger  antagonist,  who  stood  by 
his  side  helpless  and  dumfounded,  with  white  lips 
and  a  clammy  ooze  of  perspiration  on  his  face. 

"Say, — Crawford!"  he  said  brokenly.  "Don't 
fool  me  any  more.  Tell  me  this  isn't  true — that  it's 
only  a  yarn  you're  stringing.  Crawford — I  can't 
believe  it.  I " 

"Look  at  this  then,  Tom,"  interposed  Crawford 
in  a  kindly  tone.  "I'm  sorry  for  you,  old  sport, 
damned  sorry,  and  I  would  spare  you  if  I  could. 
Your  own  good  heart  and  good  nature  have  been 
made  fools  of.  Brace  up!  Do  you  think  you  can 
manage  to  read  this?" 

Crawford  handed  him  a  document. 


272       The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

"I'll  strike  a  match  as  you  glance  over  it,"  he 
went  on. 

With  trembling  fingers,  Menteith  took  the  paper 
from  Crawford  and  read  it  through.  Then  he  fold- 
ed it  up  again  and  handed  it  back. 

"That's  sufficient,  Bob,"  he  said  firmly,  bracing 
his  shoulders  and  facing  Crawford  boldly.  "I'm 
sorry  I  spoke  and  acted  as  I  did.  I  didn't  know. 
It's  a  bit  of  a  shock  to  me.  Forgive  me,  old  fellow, 
and  forget  all  about  my  part  in  this." 

He  held  out  his  hand. 

"Good-bye!"  he  said,  "and,  good  luck  I  I  won't 
see  you  again,  I  guess.  I'll  take  the  train  out  to- 
morrow. In  a  week  I'll  be  on  the  way  back  to  old 
Ceylon." 

Crawford  held  Menteith's  hand  for  a  moment, 
and  the  hand  was  cold  and  limp. 


CHAPTER  EIGHTEEN 
Cold  Kail  Hot  Again 

NEXT  forenoon  early,  when  Lizbeth  and  Colin 
Jackson  were  alone  in  close  conversation  in 
the  ranch  kitchen,  the  noise  of  grinding  footsteps 
on  the  gravel  outside — better  than  any  burglar- 
alarm  or  electric  push-button — warned  the  pair  of 
the  approach  of  a  caller. 

Something  familiar  in  the  measured  tread  caused 
Lizbeth  to  start  up,  and  scarcely  had  she  done  so 
when  the  door  was  unceremoniously  pushed  open 
and  Crawford  entered.  With  the  old,  well-remem- 
bered, easy-going,  devil-may-care  swagger,  as  dis- 
concerting as  it  was  exasperating,  he  doffed  his  Stet- 
son. Colin  Jackson  stood  staring  at  him  as  if  turned 
to  stone;  and  the  draperies  which  JJzbeth  had  been 
showing  to  her  father  fell  from  her  hands  to  the 
floor. 

"Crawford!"  was  all  she  could  gasp. 

"You  don't  seem  to  be  particularly  glad  to  see  me, 
Liz,"  he  remarked, — a  trifle  bitterly.  "It's  quite  a 
time  since  you  last  saw  me." 

"What  the  devil  are  you  after  anyway?"  cried 
Colin  Jackson,  compressing  his  mouth  in  his  rage. 

273 


274      The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

"Nobody  wants  you  here.  Get  out  of  this,  you 
damned  virtue-thief,  and  don't  dare  to  show  your 
face  in  the  neighbourhood  on  the  peril  of  your  life." 

"Whoa!  Steady  up!  Go  easy,  Jackson,  old 
man!"  cried  Crawford.  "Why  don't  you  offer  an 
over-seas  visitor  a  chair?" 

"What  do  you  want  here,  you  unhung  black- 
guard? Aren't  you  content  with  the  havoc  you  have 
already  wrought,  without  coming  back  to  gloat  over 
it?  Can't  you  leave  the  girl  alone  who  has  suffered 
through  you  and  your  slippery  wiles,  and  give  her 
a  chance  to  make  good — instead  of  coming  here  to 
crow  over  your  misdeeds?" 

"Oh, — I  just  dropped  in  while  passing  to  offer 
my  congratulations,"  exclaimed  Crawford  sarcasti- 
cally. 

With  fear  in  her  eyes,  Lizbeth  stared,  unable  to 
speak  and  almost  unable  to  move. 

"What  do  you  want?"  snarled  Jackson.  "If  it's 
money — I  haven't  got  any:  if  it's  the  brat — you  are 
welcome  to  it,  and  good  riddance :  if  it  is  Lizbeth — 
then  she'll  give  you  your  answer  in  double-quick 
time." 

"Say,  Jackson — if  I  wanted  money,  I  have  the 
good  sense  to  know  that  this  isn't  the  place  to  come 
for  it.  As  for  the  kid,  I'll  pay  you  for  its  keep,  so 
you  needn't  worry  on  that  score.  When  I  want  Liz, 
I'll  tell  her.  Then  it'll  be  time  enough  to  get  her 


answer." 


Cold  Kail  Hot  Again          275 

Colin  Jackson  walked  over  to  the  door  and  held 
it  wide  open. 

"There's  the  door,  Crawford!    Get  out!" 

"No!"  replied  Crawford  in  defiance.  "I  won't! 
Not  on  your  tin-tacks!" 

The  rancher  was  beside  himself.  He  clutched  at 
a  heavy  cudgel  which  stood  in  the  corner  by  the 
door;  and  there  were  madness  and  fierce  hatred  in  his 
eyes. 

Lizbeth  sprang  between  and  intervened. 

"Dad! — surely  you  have  sense  enough  to  know 
that  this  is  not  the  way  to  settle  matters  with  Bob 
Crawford.  This  is  between  him  and  me.  Why  not 
go  yourself,  and  leave  us  alone  for  a  bit?" 

"All  right!"  replied  her  father  savagely,  throw- 
ing the  club  back  again  in  the  corner.  "But  tell  him, 
and  tell  him  straight,  where  he  is  getting  off  at. 
There  must  be  no  half  measures  with  that  skunk. 
And  if  I  find  him  here  when  I  come  back,  don't 
blame  me  for  what  happens." 

He  went  out,  shutting  the  door  noisily  behind 
him. 

In  the  next  moment,  Lizbeth's  whole  nature 
changed.  She  ran  to  Crawford,  threw  her  arms 
round  his  neck  and  in  tones  of  softness  and  tender- 
ness she  supplicated  him. 

"Oh,  Bob,  Bob !  Why  did  you  not  leave  me  here 
as  I  was?  Why  did  you  come  back?  I  did  not 
know  that  I  would  ever  see  you  again.  I  did  not 


276      The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

know  you  loved  me  really  and  truly.  Everybody 
told  me  you  only  loved  for  the  time  being,  and  I  felt 
I  had  been  made  a  fool  of. 

"Tom  Menteith  is  going  out  to  Ceylon.  I  am  to 
follow  him  there  and  marry  him.  It  is  my  own  ar- 
rangement. Bob,  won't  you  go  away  and  forget 
me  altogether?  Forget  what  has  passed  between  us. 
Take  the  kiddie  if  you  wish  him,  and  go  away. 
Please,  please,  Bob, — if  you  ever  really  loved  me, 
go  away." 

Crawford  looked  at  her  and  his  hands  sought  her 
hair,  as  they  used  to  do.  He  caught  her  arms  and 
held  her  from  him,  looking  into  her  eyes. 

"Liz — you've  done  me  a  great  wrong — almost  the 
greatest  wrong  a  woman  can  do  to  any  man.  But, 
because  I  love  you — more  than  ever  I  did — and  be- 
cause my  love  makes  me  forgive  you,  I  am  not  going 
away — not  until  you  consent  to  come  with  me. 

"You're  not  all  bad,  Liz,  not  nearly  all  bad;  you 
are  mostly  good.  The  little  bad  in  you  is  what  you 
have  been  taught  by  that  rascally  father  of  yours. 
You  never  had  a  chance — a  real  chance.  You  have 
been  with  him  too  long.  You  are  mine.  You  are 
coming  with  me.  It's  a  great  country  out  there, 
Liz.  We'll  start  all  over  again.  Yes! — you  are 
coming  with  me  if  I  have  to  carry  you  there.  I 
crossed  the  Pacific  to  get  you  and  I'm  going  to  take 
you  with  me. 


Cold  Kail  Hot  Again          277 

"Do  you  hear  that,  Liz?  Do  you  understand 
me?" 

He  spoke  with  the  deliberation  and  the  assur- 
ance of  one  who  had  no  doubt  as  to  the  outcome 
of  his  plans. 

Lizbeth  threw  her  head  on  his  breast  in  a  con- 
flict of  uncertainty. 

"No,  no,  Bob  I  I  can't  go  with  you.  Don't  you 
see  it  is  too  late  now?"  she  said  at  last.  "It  means 
too  much  for  me.  It  means  giving  up  a  beautiful 
home  in  Ceylon ;  a  position  of  importance  for  which 
I  have  craved  all  my  life;  and  all  that  money  can, 
buy.  It  means  ruin  for  those  left  here;  it  means 
getting  out  of  the  ranch,  selling  up  the  remaining 
stock,  for  father  hasn't  a  dollar  to  call  his  own.  Oh 
— go  away!  If  you  really  love  me  as  you  say  you 
do — go  away  and  leave  me. 

"Our  secret  need  never  be  known,  Bob!  Only 
one  person  knows  it  now,  for  the  others  do  not 
know  who  we  are.  Go,  Bob, — go!  Do  this  much 
for  me.  I  will  send  you  money  when  you  need  it. 
I  will  see  that  you  have  horses,  sheep,  everything 
you  need.  Won't  you  go?"  she  pleaded.  "And  I 
might  come  to  you  out  there,  once.  Yes,  Bob! — 
I  will  come  to  you,  alone,  away  out  there;  and  we 
can  be  happy  together  for  a  little  while.  Tom  need 
never  know.  Oh, — I  can  find  a  way,"  she  went  on, 
"if  you  only  let  me  live  as  I  feel  I  must  live — se- 
cure in  my  new  position  for  the  balance  of  the  time." 


278      The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

Mercurial  in  temperament,  her  manner  changed 
again  as  he  looked  at  her,  obdurate  and  earnest. 

"Oh,  Bob  I"  she  cried,  in  a  breaking  voice,  "I  can- 
not resist  that  look  in  your  face.  I  thought  I  was 
strong,  but  I  am  not  strong  enough.  What  am  I 
to  do?  I  don't  feel  sure;  I  want  to  stay  with  Tom 
— I  want  to  be  with  you.  Oh,  I  don't  know — I  don't 
know  I" 

She  leaned  on  his  breast  and  sobbed.  And  Craw- 
ford knew  that  his  old  power  with  her  still  held. 

Quickly  he  made  up  his  mind  how  to  act  to  se- 
cure her  wavering  allegiance.  Her  admission  of 
indecision  was  an  admission  that  she  had  loved  him 
in  his  absence  and  that  she  would  never  let  him  go 
away  again  without  her. 

He  threw  her  from  him,  almost  roughly:  and  she 
cowered  away  in  fear  and  surprise. 

"All  right!"  he  cried.  "If  you  cannot  make  up 
your  mind,  I'll  do  it  for  you.  Stay  with  your  new 
lover;  eat  his  grub  and  love  him  in  exchange  for 
it;  be  his  doll — for  that's  all  you  can  ever  be  to  him 
anyway. 

"I'm  going.  You'll  never  see  me  again.  You've 
had  your  chance.  I've  done  my  part.  I'm  through 
now — so  don't  blame  me." 

He  turned  quickly  away  from  her  and  strode  to- 
ward the  door.  But,  with  a  terrified  cry,  Lizbeth — 
the  imperious,  masterful  Lizbeth — ran  after  him. 
All  her  affectation  and  all  her  insincerity  were  gone. 


Cold  Kail  Hot  Again          279 

She  clung  to  him — a  woman  frail  and  weak,  crying 
for  peace  and  shelter  from  the  only  man  in  all  the 
world  from  whom  she  felt  she  could  ever  obtain 
them. 

"Don't  go,  Bob!  Oh,  don't  go!  I  could  never 
bear  that  now." 

He  turned  to  her  again. 

"Yes,  yes, — wait!"  she  cried,  her  anxious  face 
searching  his,  as  she  patted  him  with  her  hands. 
"Wait  for  me,  Bob !  I'll  go  too ! 

"We'll  hurry  away  from  this  hell  on  earth,  for 
that's  what  it  is.  I  can't  stand  any  more  of  it.  I 
didn't  love  him.  I  see  that  all  now.  I  only  loved 
what  he  owned.  He  always"  did  as  I  wanted  him  to. 
But  you  are  a  man — the  only  man  who  ever  forced 
me  to  do  what  he  wanted  me  to  do — and,  Bob,  I 
love  you  for  it.  Yes! — I  love  you.  Oh,  Bob,  Bob, 
I  want  you, — I  want  you !" 

Her  voice  rang  out,  wild,  unfettered,  sincere ;  and 
all  the  wrong  she  had  done  Crawford  was  obliterat- 
ed in  that  heart-hungry  cry.  His  arms  went  round 

her  and  their  lips  met  passionately. 

****** 

A  slender,  girlish  figure  came  slowly  down  the 
stairs  from  the  room  above  and  stood  at  the  turn, 
almost  hidden  from  view  yet  surveying  the  entire 
room.  She  had  heard  the  sound  of  voices;  and  the 
high-pitched  cry  of  Lizbeth  had  brought  her  down, 
startled  and  wondering. 


28o      The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

For  a  time  she  could  not  understand  what  her 
eyes  beheld,  but  soon  all  was  made  clear  to  her  and 
she  drew  back  again,  unheard  and  unseen. 

Slowly  Lizbeth  led  Crawford  over  to  the  little 
cot  by  the  fireplace  and,  lifting  the  coverlet,  she 
showed  him  his  little  son,  she  looking  upon  the  babe 
for  the  first  time  with  real  feelings  of  motherly  love 
and  tenderness. 

And  thus — stooping  together  and  laughing  over 
their  little  child — Colin  Jackson  found  them  on  his 
return. 

"In  the  name  of  thunder!  Isn't  that  man  out  of 
here  yet?"  he  growled.  "Stop  this  fooling,  you 
pair  of  silly  idiots. 

"I  see  you  are  up  to  all  the  tricks  of  your  trade, 
Crawford — trying  the  sentimental  stuff.  Well  I — 
it  isn't  going  to  work  this  time. 

"Lizbeth — send  that  man  about  his  business,  and 
look  sharp.  It's  mighty  poor  respect  you  show  for 
the  gentleman  you  are  going  to  marry." 

"I  never  will  marry  him,"  cried  Lizbeth,  defiantly. 

"What?  What?  What?  Do  you  tell  me  that 
to  my  face,  at  this  hour?"  he  yelled,  turning  livid 
with  rage.  "You'll  be  telling  me  next  that  you  are 
going  to  marry  this  scoundrel." 

"No, — that  won't  be  necessary  either,  dad,"  said 
Lizbeth  quietly. 

"We  are  married  already." 


Cold  Kail  Hot  Again          281 

Swift  as  a  shot  from  a  gun  the  words  flew  out 
and  penetrated  the  mark. 

"It's  a  lie !  It's  a  trick !"  cried  Jackson  in  a  futile 
endeavour  to  persuade  himself,  if  not  the  others, 
that  it  was  not  true. 

"It  isn't  a  lie,"  remarked  Crawford,  "but  you  bet 
it  was  a  pretty  fine  trick.  We  were  married  the 
day  of  the  Roanstone  Fair,  a  year  ago  last  April. 
There's  the  certificate!  There  were  just  ourselves, 
a  little,  old,  retired  minister  who  was  doddering  at 
the  brink  of  his  grave,  and  a  couple  of  witnesses 
who  never  saw  us  before.  Quite  safe  if  we  didn't 
want  it  to  come  out,  but  everything  absolutely  O.  K. 
all  the  same." 

Colin  Jackson  read  the  certificate  through,  then 
tore  it  into  scraps  which  he  threw  in  Crawford's 
face. 

Crawford  laughed. 

"I  guess  that  means  you've  divorced  us,  Jackson. 
But  you  shouldn't  tear  up  papers  that  don't  belong 
to  you,"  he  remonstrated.  "It'll  cost  me  five  dollars 
for  a  fresh  copy  of  that  certificate — so  you  see  it's 
a  damned  expensive  temper  that  of  yours." 

There  was  little  mirth  in  the  situation  for  Colin 
Jackson,  and  he  ignored  entirely  the  sarcasm  of  his 
newly-discovered  son-in-law.  His  hands  trembled 
and  his  face  became  haggard.  He  seemed  to  have 
lost  control  over  his  words  and  his  actions,  as  he 


282       The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

turned  to  her  upon  whom  he  had  staked  so  much, 
and  lost. 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me  about  this  before,  Liz- 
beth?  You  owed  that  much  to  your  old  father. 
I  may  have  wronged  others,  but,  God  knows!  I 
never  denied  you  what  you  wanted." 

"Don't  start  hi  to  lecture  me,"  she  replied  in  de- 
fiance. "What  I  did,  I  did  in  the  hope  of  helping 
you,  and  it  never  would  have  happened  if  you  hadn't 
urged  me  to  marry  Tom  Menteith.  It  looked  easy 
then,  with  Bob  in  Australia  and  the  chances  that  he 
would  never  come  back,  no  witness  who  knew  us, 
and  somebody  to  foist  the  youngster  on.  But  I  was 
a  fool  to  think  that  it  would  never  come  out;  and 
I'm  glad  now  that  it  has  been  stopped  before  it  got 
too  far." 

"Yes,  yes, — smooth  tongue  and  fine  excuses!" 
complained  her  father  impatiently.  "You  were  al- 
ways good  at  that.  But  there  is  only  one  word  for 
what  you  were  going  to  do,  it's  an  ugly  word, — 
maybe  you've  heard  it  before." 

He  threw  up  his  hands  in  disgust. 

"Oh,  for  God's  sake,  get  out  of  my  sight !  You, 
and  your  brat,  and  your  sneering  fancy-man !  Never 
let  me  see  your  face  again.  You  are  a  disgrace  to 
the  lowest  drab  in  any  Chinatown.  Get  out,  before 
I  curse  the  day  you  were  born !" 

His  face  grew  drawn  and  bloodless  as  he  hounded 
them  before  him. 


Cold  Kail  Hot  Again          283 

Lizbeth  picked  the  child  up  from  the  cot,  and 
Colin  Jackson  bundled  them  toward  the  door.  His 
voice  rose  in  a  hysteria  of  passion. 

"I  wronged  a  good  girl  for  you,"  he  cried,  "a 
good  girl,  I  tell  you — who  would  not  harm  a  fly. 
You  are  going  to  turn  tail  and  run  away  from  it 
all,  and  leave  me  among  the  ruins.  But  she'll  stay 
and  help  me  the  best  she  can.  Would  to  God  she'd 
been  mine  instead  of  you!" 

Lizbeth  turned  and  looked  at  him  appealingly. 

"Go  away!"  he  yelled.  "Don't  speak  a  word  I 
Go  away — go  away!" 

When  the  door  closed  on  them,  he  tottered  over 
to  the  table  with  the  gait  of  an  old,  worn-out  man, 
and  buried  his  face  in  his  hands.  All  his  courage 
and  venom  were  gone.  Years  seemed  to  have  rolled 
suddenly  on  top  of  him,  burying  him  as  under  a 
funeral  pyre. 

When  his  grief  had  spent  itself,  he  raised  his  head 
slowly  and,  with  an  effort,  got  to  his  feet,  moving 
aimlessly  around  the  kitchen,  with  his  hands  out  in 
front  of  him. 

"Yes !  Kathie  is  a  good  girl,"  he  murmured.  "I 
did  her  wrong — but  I'll  go  to  her;  I'll  make  it  up 
to  her ;  I'll  tell  her  all  about  it.  She  won't  run  away 
and  leave  me.  She  won't  be  angry  with  an  old  man. 
She  won't  bring  fresh  ruin  on  top  of  old.  Yes! — 
she's  a  good  girl. 


284      The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

"Kathie,  Kathie!"  he  cried.  But  his  voice  scarce- 
ly rose  above  a  whisper. 

"Kathie,  Kathie!"  he  called  louder. 

He  went  to  the  turn  in  the  stairs,  still  shouting. 

"Kathie, — Kathie, — are  you  there?" 

From  room  to  room  he  tottered — only  one  word 
on  his  lips,  the  name  of  the  girl  he  had  bullied,  and 
wronged,  and  almost  broken. 

But  Kathie  did  not  answer.  She  was  far  from 
the  reach  of  his  voice,  and  he  was  alone  and  help- 
less amid  the  ruins  of  his  crumpled  ambitions. 


CHAPTER  NINETEEN 
Dissolving  Shadows 

LIZBETH'S  confession  to  her  father  sounded 
like  the  sweetest  music  to  Kathie  standing 
there  at  the  turn  of  the  stairway.  She  experienced 
no  wild  surge  of  maddening  anger  or  resentment, 
nor  had  she  any  declamation  to  make  before  those 
who  had  wronged  her  so  cruelly.  All  she  knew  and 
all  she  cared  was  that  at  last  she  was  free  from  the" 
horrible  nightmare  which  had  so  long  beset  her. 

Like  hoar  frost  before  the  morning  sun  all  the 
clinging  shadows  melted  away  and  the  brightness 
of  a  great  peace  radiated  through  her.  Lizbeth 
was  married,  so  she  was  free  now — always  had  been 
free,  in  fact — to  throw  back  the  lie  in  the  teeth  of 
the  world;  free  to  shout  gladly  her  innocence  to  the 
wind,  the  trees,  the  birds;  free  to  defy  those  who 
had  held  her  in  bondage  and,  above  all,  free  to  vin- 
dicate herself  in  the  eyes  of  those  who  once  had 
been  so  kind  to  her  although  their  faith  had  wavered 
because  of  her  silence. 

Kathie  slipped  quickly  upstairs  and  into  her  bed- 
room. She  swung  herself  over  the  window  sill  and 
dropped  lightly  to  the  turf  below.  Like  the  wind, 

285 


286      The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

she  sped  up  over  the  hill,  through  the  broad,  green 
trail  in  the  wood  and  over  the  other  side  to  Broad- 
acres,  an  aggressive  defiance  in  her  eyes,  a  wild  tu- 
mult in  her  bosom  and  a  gloriously  untrammelled 
freedom  dancing  through  the  whole  being  of  her. 

This  time,  there  was  no  Indian  maid  to  block 
her  way  at  the  door.  Had  there  been,  it  would 
have  been  of  little  consequence,  for  half  a  dozen 
maids  could  not  have  barred  her  entrance  then  to 
the  people  she  loved. 

Mrs.  Gray  was  comfortably  seated  on  a  couch 
before  a  bright  fire.  On  a  wooden  stand  by  her 
side  rested  a  book  from  which  she  was  reading. 
A  ball  of  wool  lay  in  her  lap  and  she  was  plying 
her  knitting  needles  with  an  amazing  ease  and  dex- 
terity. Like  many  another  lady  of  her  upbringing, 
she  considered  that  to  read  without  knitting  at  the 
same  time  was  a  waste  of  time,  and,  therefore,  an 
unpardonable  sin. 

Kathie  broke  in  on  the  quiet  of  her  afternoon, 
with  her  heart-wrung  cry  of  freedom,  carrying  with 
her  a  contagious  thrill  of  excitement.  Running  for- 
ward with  her  arms  outstretched,  she  threw  herself 
at  the  feet  of  the  elderly  lady. 

"I  am  good — I  am  good!"  she  cried  wildly. 
"They  said  I  was  not;  they  said  I  was  bad;  but, 
oh, — I  am  good — I  am  good!" 

She  looked  up  into  the  face  of  her  old  friend, 


Dissolving  Shadows  287 

clutching  at  the  sleeves  of  the  old  lady's  gown  with 
nervous  fingers. 

"Tell  me  you  believe  me  now?"  she  pleaded. 
"Tell  me  you  still  love  me;  oh,  tell  me  you  love 
me!  I  am  dying  to  be  loved  again!" 

Mrs.  Gray  was  startled  by  the  sudden  appearance 
of  Kathie,  and  the  girl's  pleading  cry  resounded 
through  to  her  very  soul.  Tenderly  she  caught  the 
wet  face  between  her  hands. 

"Let  me  look  into  your  eyes,  lassie,  and  I'll  tell 
you,"  she  said  with  motherly  gentleness. 

In  that  brief  moment  the  truth  shone  out  bright 
and  clear,  chasing  away  the  last  lingering  shadow 
of  a  doubt. 

"Yes,  yes!"  she  went  on  decidedly,  "you  are  good, 
my  own,  sweet  lass.  Good  as  gold  and  pure  as  the 
snow  you  once  were  buried  in!  A  face  like  you 
have  now  can  never  lie.  And  I  love  you,  my  dear, 
with  all  my  poor,  old,  weak,  throbbing  heart." 

She  kissed  Kathie  on  the  forehead  and  then 
looked  into  her  face  again. 

"If  I  only  had  had  you  beside  me  and  had  looked 
at  you  as  I  do  now,  I  never  could  have  doubted — 
not  for  the  tiniest  moment.  Ah! — how  you  have 
been  slandered  and  misjudged — my  sweet,  innocent 
lamb!  And  I  am  one  of  the  worst  of  the  sinners, 
for  I  should  have  known  better." 

The  old  lady's  eyes  were  dimmed  with  tears  and, 
as  Kathie  rose,  Mrs.  Gray  drew  her  on  to  the  couch 


288      The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

by  her  side.  And  thus,  with  her  head  on  the  old 
lady's  breast,  Kathie  cried  in  happy  relief  from  her 
long,  pent-up  feelings. 

"We  condemned  you  without  a  trial,"  said  Mrs. 
Gray.  "Tell  me  all  you  know,  Kathie,  so  that  I 
may  help  you  to  straighten  out  the  terrible  tangle : — 
for,  you  see,  I  know  so  little." 

Kathie  felt  in  her  bosom  for  the  locket  which  her 
uncle  had  given  her,  and,  with  a  vigorous  tug  she 
broke  it  from  its  fastenings  and  handed  it  to  Mrs. 
Gray. 

"Crawford  is  back  from  Australia,"  she  sobbed. 
"Lizbeth  and  he  were  married  long  ago,  and  the 
child  is  theirs." 

"And  they  made  you  take  this  vow  to  hide  their 
duplicity?"  asked  the  horrified  lady.  "But  Lizbeth 
was  to  marry  Tom  MenteithI  What  of  him?" 

"My  uncle  and  Lizbeth  told  me  the  child  was  Mr. 
Menteith's;  and  I  believed  them,"  faltered  Kathie. 
"They  said  they  wished  to  hide  the  fact  from  old 
Mr.  Menteith  until  after  their  marriage.  They  de- 
ceived me  into  helping  them;  they  threatened  me, 
they  played  on  my  feelings,  they  said  it  would  mean 
ruin  to  them  if  I  did  not  consent  and  that  I  was 
the  only  one  who  could  help  them.  They  were  my 
only  relatives  and  I  felt  I  owed  them  my  assistance 
where  possible.  I  consented.  Then  they  tricked  me 
and  spread  those  horrible  lies  around. 

"Oh,  what  a  miserable  fool  I  have  been!    I  have 


Dissolving  Shadows  289 

almost  missed  my  way.  It  has  almost  made  me  bad, 
for  my  belief  in  my  fellows  was  nearly  dead  and  I 
thought  the  evil  in  this  world  by  far  outweighed 
the  good;  and  that  it  was  useless  to  fight." 

Kathie  took  back  the  locket  and  made  to  cast  it 
into  the  fire. 

"Steady,  my  dear!  You  must  not  do  that,"  in- 
tervened Mrs.  Gray.  "We  may  need  this.  Give  it 
back  to  me  and  I  will  keep  it  safe  for  you." 

Kathie  looked  around  the  familiar  room,  and  a 
feeling  of  something  amiss  came  to  her. 

"Where  is  Captain  Gray?"  she  asked.  "Did  he 
also  lose  faith  in  me?" 

"Ah  no,  my  dear  I  He,  among  all  of  us,  has  main- 
tained your  innocence.  He  shouted  it  from  the  hill- 
tops and  down  in  the  valley  in  the  town.  He  has 
quarrelled  and  fought  over  it  until  the  people  are 
afraid  to  mention  your  name  in  his  hearing. 

"He  and  Alick  have  been  away  for  months  and 
months,  trying  to  prove  a  theory  he  has  regarding 
you.  I  am  not  very  hopeful  for  the  success  of  their 
mission,  but,  if  it  should  prove  true; — oh,  my  dear  I 
what  rejoicing  there  will  be  in  Broadacres  this  night. 

"I  had  a  telegram  last  week  saying  they  had  ar- 
rived in  the  East. 

"They  are  due  here  to-day.  Tom  Semple  has 
gone  in  to  meet  them  at  the  train.  The  train  is  sev- 
eral hours  late,  but  they  are  due  here  any  minute 


now." 


290      The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

Kathie  could  scarcely  contain  herself.  "But  what 
is  it,"  she  inquired,  "that  has  taken  them  away 
from  home  so  long?  What  is  it  connected  with  me 
that  could  be  of  such  importance  to  busy  men?" 

"Probably  I  should  not  tell  you,  Kathie,  for  it 
is  likely  to  be  only  an  old  man's  strange  fancy,  after 
all; — but,  do  you  know,  you  bear  the  same  name, 
Kathleen  Gray,  as  Captain  Gray's  mother  did?  He 
discovered  that  from  a  little  brooch  belonging  to 
you  which  he  found  in  the  wood  some  time  ago.  He 
says  you  remind  him  of  his  mother  in  voice  and 
manner.  Your  strange  and  wonderful  talent  for 
music  brings  back  memories  of  his  brother  who  ran 
away  from  home  and  was  supposed  to  have  been 
drowned — supposed,  because  his  body  never  was 
really  properly  identified." 

As  well  as  she  could,  Mrs.  Gray  told  her  eager 
young  listener  all  she  knew  of  the  story,  and  she 
tried  her  best  to  impress  on  her  its  improbability 
and  what  little  chance  there  was  of  the  investiga- 
tions proving  anything  more  than  that  they  were 
fruitless. 

But  Kathie's  more  romantic  nature  would  not  let 
go  of  the  possibility  of  the  connecting  links  being 
forged — no  matter  how  small  the  chances  might  be. 

"But  it  might  be  true,"  she  maintained,  trying  to 
discover  a  trace  of  hope  in  her  less  impressible  com- 
panion. "Why  couldn't  it  be  true?" 


Dissolving  Shadows  291 

"My  dear,  we  must  just  wait  quietly  until  they 
come  back,  then  we  shall  know  all  about  it.'* 

"But  was  there  no  word  in  the  telegram  as  to 
what  progress  they  had  made?"  continued  Kathie. 

"Not  a  word !  That  is  what  makes  me  think  they 
have  discovered  nothing.  But,  my  dear,  do  not  be 
downhearted,  for  it  shall  make  no  difference  one 
way  or  the  other.  You  are  still  our  little  foster 
daughter  and  you  must  stay  with  us  always  now,  for 
we  want  you.  You  know  you  can  never  go  back 
under  the  roof  where  you  have  been  so  outrageously 
treated." 

"But  yet  it  might  be  true!"  harped  Kathie,  en- 
couraging the  faint,  flickering  hope.  "I  feel  that 
my  father  was  more  than  he  pretended  to  be;  that 
there  was  something  great,  and  good,  and  noble  in 
him — born  in  him — which  no  buffering,  nor  pri- 
vation, nor  even  despair  could  entirely  obliterate." 

In  her  impatience,  she  rose  and  walked  across 
the  floor,  time  and  again  soliloquising: — 

"But  what  if  it  be  true  I  Oh,  what  if  it  be  true !" 
until  Mrs.  Gray's  heart  was  pained  to  think  of  the 
disappointment  which  must  surely  be  hers.  And 
she  wished  she  had  held  her  peace  and  had  kept  her 
secret. 

At  last  the  well-known  clip-clop  of  her  favourite 
mare  resounded  from  the  roadway,  and  Mrs.  Gray 
knew  that  her  husband  and  Alick  were  being  driven 
up  the  avenue,  home  once  more. 


292      The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

She  rose  to  go  to  meet  them  at  the  door.  Kathie 
followed. 

"No,  my  dear  I"  said  Mrs.  Gray  kindly.  "I  think 
you  had  better  remain  here.  I  wish  to  see  them 
first,  to  tell  them  in  a  few  words  what  has  trans- 
pired since  they  went  away;  to  prepare  them  for 
the  joy  of  meeting  you  without  a  cloud  between." 

She  left  Kathie  walking  the  floor  in  a  fever  of 
unrest. 

Along  the  hallway,  at  the  wide-open  door,  she 
welcomed  her  boys  back  again,  and  in  a  few  brief 
sentences  she  told  them  the  glad  news. 

"Is  she  with  you  now?"  interposed  Alick  excit- 
edly. 

"She  is  in  the  sitting  room,"  smiled  Mrs.  Gray. 

Alick  did  not  wait  for  any  more.  He  bounded 
along  the  hallway  and  disappeared.  He  stood  at 
the  door  for  a  moment,  gazing  at  the  woman  he 
loved  so  dearly.  She  turned  and  saw  him  and,  with 
open  arms,  they  ran  toward  each  other. 

Not  a  word  was  spoken.  Their  emotions  were 
too  great  for  that.  Alick  held  her  to  his  fast-beat- 
ing heart  in  his  strong  embrace.  Their  lips  met 
in  the  silent  eloquence  of  their  love. 

"Tell  me,  Alick, — tell  me,"  said  Kathie  at  last, 
"is  it  true,  oh,  is  it  true?" 

"That  I  love  you,  dearest?"  he  asked. 

"No,  no,  no,  Alick!  That  I  know.  But  is  it  true 
that " 


Dissolving  Shadows  293 

"Hush,  sweetheart!  I  am  not  at  liberty  to  tell. 
You  must  ask  that  of  your  Uncle,  Captain  Gray." 

With  a  glad  shout  she  broke  from  his  arms  and 
clasped  her  hands  together  in  ecstasy. 

"Then  it  is  true!  It  is  true!"  she  cried.  "Oh,  I 
am  so  happy !  How  glad  I  am !  The  world  seems 
a  perfect  Paradise!" 

The  jovial  voice  of  Captain  Gray  heralded  his 
approach.  His  tall  figure  was  framed  in  the  door- 
way and  his  arms  were  also  outstretched  in  welcome 
for  the  woman  in  whom  his  trust  had  never  wavered. 

"My  own,  dear,  little  niece  I"  he  exclaimed. 

She  threw  herself  into  his  arms. 

"My  Uncle,  my  Uncle !"  she  murmured.  And  the 
room  became  strangely  quiet  for  a  time. 

"But  is  it  really,  and  truly,  and  irrevocably  true?" 
she  asked  anxiously,  looking  up  at  him. 

Captain  Gray  smiled. 

"Yes! — it  is  really,  and  truly,  and  irrevocably 
true,  even  'cross-my-heart-and-may-I-die'  true,"  he 
added,  laughing. 

"Then  you  must  tell  me  all  about  it  at  once,"  she 
cried,  still  clinging  to  him.  "I  am  dying  to  hear." 

"I'll  give  you  some  of  the  headings,  little  sweet- 
heart. The  details  must  wait  until  after  supper,  for 
Alick  and  I  are  hungry  as  bears  waking  up  after 
their  winter  sleep  and  having  fed  on  nothing  but 
sucked  paw  all  the  time. 

"First  of  all,  the  man  who  was  found  drowned 


294      The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

in  the  Solway  Firth  was  not  my  brother.  He  was  a 
travelling  musician  who  had  stolen  my  brother's  vio- 
lin from  him  at  a  wayside  inn  some  months  before. 
I  traced  my  brother — your  father — to  Ireland,  to 
the  watering  place  where  he  first  met  your  mother. 
All  the  rest  lies  proven  there,"  he  continued,  pro- 
ducing a  bundle  of  papers  from  his  pocket  and 
throwing  it  on  the  table.  "Your  parents'  marriage 
certificate;  the  proof  of  your  birth;  and,  best  of  all, 
a  full  and  lucid  diary  of  your  father's  doings  and 
wanderings  from  the  time  he  ran  away  from  home 
until  a  week  before  his  death.  Alick  found  them, 
in  the  home  of  an  old  woman  who  had  got  some 
of  your  mother's  belongings  after  her  death.  The 
old  woman  had  not  known  their  worth  but  had  not 
cared  to  get  rid  of  them." 

Kathie  could  not  speak.  Her  joy  was  complete 
and  tears  ran  down  her  cheeks  as  she  listened,  as  in 
a  dream,  to  the  wonderful  story. 

In  the  midst  of  their  happiness,  Zella  appeared. 
She  addressed  the  Captain. 

"Mister  Jackson  he  at  door.  He  want  see  you 
quick." 

"The  devil  1"  testily  exclaimed  the  Captain.  "I 
don't  want  to  see  him.  If  I  met  that  man  now,  I 
feel  I  would  knock  him  down  and  tramp  on  him. 
Zella, — tell  him  I  won't  see  him. 

"It  would  be  like  bringing  to  a  feast  a  man  who 
had  no  stomach." 


Dissolving  Shadows  295 

"Wait  a  moment,  Zella !"  interposed  Mrs.  Gray. 
"Allan,"  she  continued,  turning  to  her  husband,  "see 
him;  let  him  know  what  we  know; — get  this  cleared 
up  now  and  done  with  for  all  time.  The  sooner  the 
better!" 

Reluctantly,  the  Captain  gave  assent. 

"Tell  him  to  come  in,  Zella.  But,  if  he  says  a 
word  out  of  place,  I'll  wring  his  neck,"  he  added. 

But  all  the  Captain's  anger  faded  at  the  sight  of 
the  old,  done  man  who  tottered  into  the  room.  They 
could  scarcely  believe  that  he  who  stood  before  them 
now  was  the  strong  and  vigorous  old  rancher  they 
had  known  and  seen  only  a  few  months  before. 

Jackson's  eyes  travelled  around  the  room,  resting 
finally  on  Kathie. 

"Kathie,  my  dear,"  he  whimpered,  in  a  trembling 
voice,  "I  knew  you  would  not  go  far  away.  I  have 
come  for  you.  They  have  all  gone  and  left  me — 
all  but  you. 

"There's  a  lot  of  work  to  be  done  and  nobody  to 
do  it,  so  you  must  hurry.  Come !  We  mustn't  disturb 
the  good  folks  here  any  longer  than  we  can  help." 

He  turned  and  hobbled  toward  the  door  as  if  he 
entertained  no  idea  that  she  would  not  follow. 

"Aren't  you  coming?"  he  exclaimed  a  little  irri- 
tably, looking  back  over  his  shoulder. 

"No, — I  am  not  coming,  Uncle  Jackson, — not  any 
more,"  replied  Kathie  in  a  voice  aquiver  with  emotion. 


296      The  Girl  of  O.  K.  Valley 

"What!"  screeched  the  old  rancher.  "Talk  like 
that  to  your  old  uncle  who  has  kept  you  all  this 
time  when  no  one  else  would  have  you  I  Say  'No' 
to  me — you  ungrateful  young  baggage  I" 

He  advanced,  shaking  his  stick  in  menace. 

"That'll  do,  Jackson,"  interfered  the  Captain. 
"Get  about  your  business.  Kathie  shall  never  set 
foot  inside  your  door  again — not  with  my  sanction." 

"With  your  sanction,"  screamed  Colin  Jackson, 
"did  you  say  with  your  sanction?  If  that  isn't  the 
brightest!  When  did  you  get  the  power  to  sanc- 
tion?" 

"There's  the  sanction  on  the  table,"  said  Captain 
Gray  calmly.  "Kathie  is  my  brother's  daughter." 

"I  don't  believe  it.  It's  another  lie — a  damned 
lie.  It's  another  scheme.  You're  all  scheming  to 


ruin  me." 


"Read  for  yourself  then,"  went  on  the  Captain. 
"As  for  the  schemes  and  all  such  dirty  work — I 
leave  that  to  you.  Your  sister  married  my  brother 
years  ago.  Kathie  is  the  child  of  that  marriage. 
The  proofs  are  all  there — read  them  I 

"My  brother's  express  desire  is  that  I  should  be- 
come the  guardian  of  his  daughter." 

The  news  fell  almost  unheeded  on  Colin  Jack- 
son's ears.  His  mind  seemed  to  be  clouded  and 
unable  to  grasp  with  the  swiftness  of  old  times.  He 
did  not  read  the  papers;  he  merely  nodded  his  head 
as  if  accepting  a  final  judgment. 


Dissolving  Shadows  297 

"Everybody  has  turned  against  me,"  he  exclaimed 
bitterly.  "But  still,  you  have  no  right  to  force  my 
Kathie  to  leave  me  and  to  live  with  you  here,  when 
she  does  not  want  to  go.  Let  her  choose.  I'll  be 
content  with  her  decision,  for  I  know  she  still  loves 
her  old  uncle.  Don't  you  dear?"  he  doddered,  look- 
ing at  Kathie  in  supplication,  his  voice  sounding  hol- 
low and  sham. 

"Tell  him  your  choice,  lass,"  said  the  Captain, 
"and  let  us  be  rid  of  him." 

Kathie  went  slowly  over  to  the  old  rancher. 

"Uncle,  I  can  never  forget  the  terible  wrong  you 
have  done  me,"  she  said,  "but,  because  you  are  my 
uncle — my  dear  mother's  brother — I  forgive  you 
gladly.  For  my  own  safety,  though,  I  could  never 
live  under  your  roof  again. 

"Captain  Gray  is  my  uncle  also;  and  I  love  him 
almost  as  much  as  I  loved  my  dear  father.  I  should 
love  to  live  with  him,  but  that  can't  be  either.  There 
is  someone  else  who  has  waited  long  and  patiently, 
someone  who  has  suffered  for  my  sake." 

She  turned  to  Alick  Simpson. 

"His  claim  on  me  is  my  claim  on  him — and  these 
claims  must  come  first." 

Gently  she  laid  her  hands  on  the  broad  shoulders; 
and,  looking  with  confidence  and  tenderness  into  his 
blue  eyes,  she  murmured: — 

"Alick,  my  own, — I  am  ready  now." 

THE   END 


A     000  128  956     o 


